Objects In the Rear View Mirror May Appear Closer Than They Are
by dragonmactir
Summary: A chance encounter on the boardwalk near the Psych offices leads to a Lassiter family reunion. Will the shadows of the past prove too much for Lassiter? Emerging Lassiet. Fair Warning.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale, though Trout doesn't exist and Vick remains chief. Marlowe also does not exist, not because I don't like her or what they did with her (I do) but because they left so little to the imagination of the fanficker by giving Lassy his Happy Ever After. Takes place in a nebulous gray zone of Never Gonna Happen. Eventual LASSIET. You were warned.

* * *

**Chapter One: Irish Eyes**

"Gus, dude, come with me. We've got to check out the new surf shop up the boardwalk," Shawn said as he flounced into the Psych offices.

Gus glanced up from his laptop at his neatly kept desk. His expression wavered somewhere between incredulity and _well duh._

"Neither of us surf, Shawn."

"Immaterial, Gus. Do you know what the place is named? 'Erin-go-Board.' It's an _Irish surf shop_, Gus, run by an actual _Irish surfer_. How novel is that? We've got to meet him. He's like…an endangered species. Like a California Condor or a Labradoodle."

"Labradoodles aren't an endangered species, Shawn."

"No, but they're adorable, and an Irish surfer could not but be adorable. Come on. There's a churro stand between here and there."

Gus immediately stood up. "I hear that," he said, and followed his friend out of the office.

Churros in hand, they sauntered up to the open-fronted surf shop. A trim of green shamrocks decorated the entrance, and from the two speakers hung over the service counter piped a reedy voice singing "Mother Macree." A tall man stood with his head bent over the cash register, his bushy hair improbably black. Shawn immediately suspected Grecian Formula, but it looked pretty good, all things considered. He was wearing a green striped polo shirt and wore a shamrock on a gold chain around his neck. A thick bush of black hair peeked out from under the neck of the polo but the man's bare, tanned forearms were relatively devoid of fur. Shawn felt a sense of surreality wash over him, a feeling like seeing something wildly out of its element, like a tanker ship on State Street, and he didn't immediately understand the cause.

Not until the man looked up, a smile of professional welcome on his face that reached all the way to his shining blue Irish eyes.

Dear.

God.

It was _Lassy._

Gus dropped his churro in his shock. Shawn's jaw came unhinged.

"Can I help you laddies?" Lassiter said in a passable Irish accent. Shawn was astonished. After hearing horror stories of his undercover work, he wouldn't have expected him to seem so…so…_smooth._ He didn't give a sign that he recognized them, not so much as a flash of those bonny blues.

Shawn got his jaw back under control and smacked Gus on the arm. They held a swift whispered conversation unintelligible to outsiders and stepped toward the counter as one. They both leaned over it to bring themselves into conspiratorial distance.

"What's the case, Lass?" Shawn asked in a whisper. "Please, please tell me there's a ring of diamond-smuggling surfers and that Jules is going to walk in any minute wearing a bikini and talking about Sex Wax."

Lassiter just looked confused. "Excuse me?" he said.

"Is that a spray-on tan you've got?" Gus asked, ignoring his confusion and his question. "It looks remarkably genuine."

"Come on, buddy, you can let us in on it. We're on the boardwalk every day. We can be your extra eyes and extra ears and extrasensory perception," Shawn said. "We'll help you bring these dastardly degenerate probably-vegan surfer smugglers to justice."

Lassiter's expression changed from confused to speculative, and then finally he nodded in understanding.

"I see what's going on here. You think I'm undercover," Lassiter said, in his natural voice, pretense of an accent dropped. "I'm not. I'm not even a cop. You guys know CJ, don't you?"

Shawn and Gus shared a look. "CJ?" they asked as one.

"Yeah. My brother. We kind of look alike."

Shawn, his expression one of mild shock and some degree of chagrin, took a closer look at the man. The resemblance was remarkable, but there was a telling difference: this man's nose was straight, not crooked. He raised a hand to his forehead. He knew it was ridiculous to pretend it was a psychic intuition but he did it anyway, out of force of habit.

"Yes. CJ. Carlton…James…Lassiter," he said.

"Jebediah," not-Lassiter said.

"_Really?" _Shawn asked.

"Really. Just one of many crosses he's had to bear."

"I'm Shawn Spencer, psychic detective. This is my partner, Horse - oh hell, screw it. His name is Burton Guster. We call him Gus. You're Lassy's twin brother. I am astonished and chagrined. I'm _astonagrined. _I never even got the faintest psychic tickle that Lassy even _had _a brother, let alone a twin."

Not-Lassiter's face twisted up in a brief show of disgust. "We're not twins. I'm six years younger than he is. And he actually lets you call him _Lassie?"_

"I wouldn't say he lets us," Gus said.

"More unwillingly tolerates, with occasional threats or outbursts of violence," Shawn said. "Hello, Lassy's little brother. It's nice to meet you."

Not-Lassiter held out his hand. "Lincoln," he said.

"Your name is _Lincoln?" _Gus said, eyes wide. He suppressed a snicker. Shawn reached out for the offered handshake with an unsuppressed laugh.

"What's your middle name? _Zebulon?" _he asked.

"No. Sean."

"What?" Shawn asked.

"Sean."

"Yes. What?" Shawn asked again.

"No, my middle name. It's _Sean."_

"Gus, what a coincidence. Lassy's little brother's middle name is the same as my first name. Bet it's not spelled the same, though. I can hear the Irish in it. I'm thinking it's the Irish spelling. Like Sean Connery."

"Sean Connery is _Scottish, _Shawn," Gus said.

"You guys work with CJ, then?" Lincoln Lassiter said. "I kind of find that hard to believe. CJ working with a psychic seems kind of _out there."_

"Detective Lassiter doesn't believe Shawn's psychic," Gus said. Shawn smacked him on the chest. Gus glared at him and smacked him back. They started smacking each other wildly.

"Now that, I believe," Lincoln said, ignoring the tussle. "He works with you anyway? You must be good. CJ has high standards." He watched them continue to smack each other for a moment, and then said, "Unless he's slipping a little in his dotage."

Shawn and Gus stopped smacking each other at the same instant, shared a mutual glare, smacked each other once more for good measure, and then turned their attention back to this most fascinating new acquaintance. Shawn raised that hand to his brow again.

"Lincoln, I'm sensing an estrangement. You haven't seen or spoken with your brother in quite some time, have you?"

"Almost fifteen years," Lincoln said.

Gus whistled. _"Dayum. _Not even a Christmas card? Birthday wishes?"

"You don't really know CJ all that well, do you?" Lincoln said.

Shawn made a derisive noise with his lips. "We know Lassy just fine, don't we, Gus? We've known him for years. He's our brutha from anutha mutha." Gus made a similar sound of derision and flapped a hand in the air. Lincoln cocked his head in a familiarly inquisitive manner and regarded them silently for a few moments.

"If you really knew CJ, and I mean _really knew _CJ, you'd know there are some…_underlying issues _in our family that I doubt he talks about. I left Santa Barbara to get away from those issues, not to get away from my brother. The fact that he never tracked me down and dragged my ass back home always seemed to indicate to me his tacit approval of my decision to make for the hills."

"But you came back," Shawn said. "You want to reconnect."

Lincoln shrugged. "Doesn't take a psychic to figure that out. Life is fun out on the road, but it gets kind of lonely after awhile. Enough years go by, and even the _dysfunctional _family starts looking good again."

"How long have you been back in town?" Gus asked.

"About five weeks."

"And you still haven't talked to your brother?" Shawn said.

Lincoln's well-tanned face blanched slightly. "Uh, no. You see, the only way back into the family without it seeming like a major surgical procedure - sans anesthesia - is through CJ, and I can't talk to CJ until my shop is up and running so he doesn't take me for a degenerate homeless person looking for a handout. I mean, I'm living in a _van_ in the parking lot. And it's not even _my van_. I can't go up to him like this and say, 'Hey, guess what, bro, I'm back!' I sank everything I've got into this venture. I've got to have something to show for it before I go knocking on his door."

Shawn and Gus shared another look. "Dude. It's a surf shop. In Santa Barbara. There's…a lot of competition," Shawn said, as delicately as possible.

"Yeah, but I'm _Irish. _I figure the novelty factor has to be worth something," Lincoln said.

"You're afraid to face your brother, aren't you?" Shawn said. "Afraid to face his thunderous Lassiterian disapproval of your life choices."

"Not that anyone could blame you," Gus said. "The guy is seriously scary."

Lincoln held up a hand. "Don't get me wrong, I love my brother. He practically raised me. It's just…he's such a…_hardass."_

Shawn half-closed his eyes and let his head roll to the side as he spoke. "Lincoln, Lincoln, Lincoln, Lincoln." He gestured from himself to Gus and back again. "We _understand. _Well do we know the terrors inflicted by that whip-crack voice, the itchy trigger finger, the Death Star laser beam glare of disapprobation."

"I never thought I'd hear you use the word 'disapprobation' in a sentence," Gus said in astonishment. "Correctly, too."

"Thank you, Gus. The point is, Lincoln, we can _help _you. Let us smooth the way forward. Ease the tension. Like a bridge over troubled water, let us lay me down."

Shawn turned his head to look at Gus, and as one they both started to sing. _"Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down."_

Lincoln looked at them skeptically. "You two, smooth the way between me and CJ?" he said. "No offense, guys, but you look to me more like the kind of people who are liable to wind him up real tight. CJ always had kind of a low threshold for…slapstick."

Shawn scoffed again. "Please. We regularly play Lassy like a fiddle."

"Like a _bass viol," _Gus said.

"He _loves_ us. We're his best buddies in the whole wide world," Shawn said. Gus made a faint mewl of demurral. "Well, he _likes_ us, at any rate."

Lincoln looked from Shawn to Gus and back again, bright blue eyes wide and faintly disbelieving. "Wow. CJ must have…_mellowed."_

"Lincoln, trust me, you won't recognize the guy. The stick in his ass has shrunk by…well, I'd say as much as_ thirty percent _in the time I've known him," Shawn said.

"You guys are sure you can make this gold for me?" Lincoln said. "I mean, I'm not looking forward to hearing what Mom's going to have to say to me after all this time, but if I get the nod from CJ it will be more like talking to a gorgon than a dragon."

Gus made a face. "I don't know that it's really all that much better to talk to a gorgon than a dragon. Gorgons can turn you to stone."

"Only if you look 'em dead in the eye, Man," Lincoln said, with a shake of the head. "Dragons can burn your ass to a crisp from any angle."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale

* * *

**Chapter Two: Reunion**

"Lassy. Where's Jules?" Shawn asked, looking at her empty desk even as he sat on the edge of Lassiter's.

Lassiter swatted him off with a case file, but his voice was mild when he spoke. "In court."

"Hell. Will she be back soon? She'd like to see this," Shawn said.

Lassiter looked up from his paperwork. "She'd like to see what?"

"Will she be back soon?"

"No, she's probably out for most of the rest of the day. She'd like to see…_what?"_

Shawn raised a hand to his forehead. "Lassy, I have recently had a stroke of psychic intuition so powerful it nearly knocked me off my feet. You, personally, have lost something very dear to you. I can reunite you with it."

"I haven't lost a thing, Spencer," Lassiter said.

"Lassy, yes you have. Fifteen years ago, or thereabouts."

Lassiter actually laughed, just a little. "Spencer, if I lost something fifteen years ago, I've replaced it by this point."

"Not if it couldn't be replaced. Not if it was, in fact, irreplaceable." Shawn moved to the center of the bullpen and placed a hand on Gus's shoulder_. "Philadelphia!" _he said in a loud, slightly strangled voice, as though he had to work to pluck the word from the recesses of his mind.

Gus affected an expression of astonishment. "The City of Brotherly Love?" he said.

Shawn continued near-spasming. "The capital of Nebraska! A town in Illinois! The sixteenth President of the United States!"

Lassiter stood up. His eyes were blue steel and his mouth was compressed in a thin white line.

"Lincoln? Something about Lincoln and…brotherly love?" Gus said.

"You two idiots know where my brother is," Lassiter said, in a grim voice.

"The spirits…are telling me…he's close, Lassy. He's so close," Shawn gasped out.

"Spirits schmirits. You two nimrods met him. He's in Santa Barbara. That's good, because I know a lot of places in Santa Barbara where you can conveniently dispose of a body."

Shawn and Gus shared an anxious look. That wasn't the enthusiastic response they'd been hoping for.

"Lassy, come on, this is your _brother _we're talking about. Your _little_ brother," Shawn said, with a smile.

"My little brother who hasn't spoken to anyone in his family for the last fifteen years, not even to let them know that he is, in fact, _not deceased. _A situation I fully intend to remedy as soon as you show me where you have him stashed."

"Now now now, you _let_ him go," Shawn said, with his hands up in front of him. "You can't tell me you didn't. If you didn't understand why he left you would have dragged him back by the ankles."

"Oh, I understood. I can't fault _anyone _for wanting to get the hell out of my family, Spencer. But fifteen years of not knowing whether my little brother was alive or dead has kind of left me in a permanent state of _pissed off _and it will have outlet. Now let me at him."

Gus tapped Shawn on the arm and whispered to him. "Where's your 'bridge over troubled water' now, Shawn?" he asked.

"This smoothing hasn't gone quite as smoothly as I expected," Shawn said. He turned back to the cranky detective. "All right, Lassy. All right. Lincoln is here. He wants to see you. He wants _back in _to the Family Lassiter. I know you're angry with him and you have a right to be, but just keep it calm, okay? The past is passed; let's work together to build a happier future. A future of togetherness. Do you feel me? Sing it out, now: _He ain't heavy, he's my brother…"_

Gus leaned over his shoulder and sang, "It's a long, long road."

Shawn raised his voice along with him; "From which there is no return." Then he sang on his own, "While we're on the way to there, why not share?"

"Spencer. Shut it. Just show me where you've stashed my idiot brother," Lassiter said through clenched teeth.

Shawn and Gus shared another uncomfortable look, and turned to lead Lassiter out of the bullpen and down to the reception area, where Sergeant Allen sat behind the desk at Booking wide-eyed and staring at the back of a bushy black head. The man in question wore a green-striped polo and khaki cargo shorts and black flipflops, a bare step up, in Lassiter's estimation, from pure hobo. Even from the back, he knew him. Fifteen years hadn't changed his appearance in any significant way, and he did look almost frighteningly like Lassiter himself.

"_Lincoln!"_ It came out like the bark of a large, angry dog. The man cringed.

"I'll never outgrow that," he said. He turned. His expression warred between sheepishness and a false cockiness. He raised his arms. "CJ! Big brother, look at you, all Dirty Harry!"

Lassiter did not slacken stride. Shawn and Gus made some abortive efforts to stop him as he strode briskly towards his brother, violence inherent in every step he took, and Lincoln cringed back from the blow that never came. Instead, Lassiter swept him into what could only be described as a bear hug, powerful enough to pick him up off the floor an inch or two despite the fact they were exactly the same size.

"God damn it, Lincoln, do you get how _worried_ I've been?" he growled. "You could have called once in awhile. Hell, you could have sent a postcard."

Relieved, Shawn sidled over to lean against the Booking desk, feeling a sense of a job well done. Sergeant Allen leaned over toward him and said, in a nearly frantic whisper, "Did you know there were _two _of them?"

"Not before this morning," he said.

"Are they…_twins? _I've never seen two people look more alike."

"Twins, but with six years difference between them. Don't mention it to Lincoln, I think he's a little touchy about it. Lassy's probably always been about forty-five, so he doesn't like to think he's catching up. Hence the Grecian Formula."

"When did you get back in town? And where the _hell_ have you been?" Lassiter asked, returning Lincoln to his feet and stepping back slightly.

"Five weeks ago," Lincoln said, sheepishly scratching the back of his head. "And I've been all over the place. Mexico, the Bahamas, Brazil, Hawaii, Ireland, South Africa, Australia…most recently I was in New Zealand. Christchurch."

"_Five weeks? _And you couldn't so much as pick up a phone and let me know you were in town?"

"I…I wanted to have something to show you before I talked to you. I opened a surf shop on the boardwalk. I'm doing the whole…you know, 'responsible tax-paying citizen' thing. And I was…you know…kinda…_scared._ I met Shawn and Gus today, and they said they could smooth things over with you, so…here I am."

"What did you think, I was going to kill you?" Lassiter said.

Gus raised a hand. "In Lincoln's defense, that's exactly what you told us you were going to do, and what it really, really _looked_ like you were going to do right up until you hugged him."

Lincoln grinned a little. "Come on, CJ, you know how it is. You've been the Word of Law in the Lassiter Family since way the hell before you ever got a nice, shiny badge to wear. How's Lulu?"

"Lulu's fine. She graduated from film school. Don't know quite yet where she's going with that."

"Geena?"

"Geena's good, last time I talked to her. She's still living in New Jersey with her husband, Raul. You have a nephew. His name's Peter, he's just about fifteen years old now."

"Awesome. I get to be the 'cool' uncle."

"Interestingly enough, Peter actually thinks _I'm_ pretty cool."

"He doesn't wear a pocket protector, does he?" Lincoln asked, with the quirk of a grin.

"No, he's remarkably undorky for someone who's half Lassiter."

Lincoln twitched, and rubbed his palms against the legs of his cargo shorts. "How's…mother?"

"There are…no surprises there. Except for the fact that Althea hasn't murdered her yet."

"Althea's still with her?"

"Yeah."

"She always struck me as an unusually nice lady. And maybe just a little bit masochistic."

"Maybe a _lot."_

"Have you…" Lincoln's voice dropped a register, "heard from _him?"_

Lassiter shook his head. "Not a word."

"No news is good news, right?"

"From him, no news is _great_ news."

Shawn sidled back to Gus and smacked him on the arm. "Dude, did you hear that? Lassy has another sister. And a nephew. And his mom's hooked up with another chick."

"I knew that last one," Gus said.

Shawn looked at him and smacked his arm again, harder. "You knew Lassy's mom was a lesbian and you didn't tell me? And how did you know?"

"It wasn't any of your business, Shawn. McNab mentioned he met her during that 'painting party' Lassiter held when he moved to the new condo. He didn't know she was his mother's lover, just that they were friends, but I figured it out when we were at his condo later on for our supernatural sleepover and I saw their picture on his end table. I figured you'd rag on him about it, so I kept quiet."

"Dude, I so totally would _never_ rag on Lassy just because his mother loves the love that Dare Not Speak Its Name."

"You rag on him about everything else, Shawn," Gus pointed out.

"This is true. But even I have my limits."

"Good, Shawn. Then prove it by not ragging on him about it now that you know," Gus said.

Shawn snickered. "Come on, Dude, I have to. His mom's shacked up with a _chick."_

Gus sighed and rolled his eyes. "Just don't come crying to me if he finally up and shoots your stupid ass," he said.

Buzz McNab appeared at the head of the stairs from the bullpen. "Detective Lassiter?" he ventured, a flicker of uncertainty on his face as he looked from one Lassiter brother to the other.

Lassiter turned around. "What is it, McNab?" he asked.

"Dr. Strode just called up. He's got the prelim on that body they hauled in this morning. Chief Vick wants you down there ASAP, Sir." The big man came down a few steps and waggled his fingers at Lincoln. "Hello, Sir. Are you Detective Lassiter's brother?"

"No, I've never met this man in my life," Lincoln said, with a smile.

"Really? You know, I've heard everyone has a double. I just never thought Detective Lassiter's would look and sound so much like Detective Lassiter," McNab said.

"McNab. He's yanking your chain. He _is_ my brother," Lassiter said, with a roll of the eyes.

"Oh. Well, it's nice to meet you, Sir. Anyway, Sir, Woody's waiting for you down at Autopsy."

Lassiter turned back to his brother. "Listen, I've got to get back to work, but don't run off, okay? We'll make plans."

"Mind if I tag along with you? See what it is you do here? Watch you get all Leroy Jethro Gibbs with your own personal Duckie?" Lincoln asked.

"Woody is nothing like Duckie," Lassiter said. "There's no specific rule against it, but are you sure you want to do that? I mean, you once threw up because of a cut on my arm."

"I was eight years old, and it was _to the bone, _Man," Lincoln said. "I'm tougher now. I've seen stuff. I can handle it."

"All right, then, Tough Man, come on down," Lassiter said, and gestured his brother to follow. Shawn and Gus fell into step behind them and he didn't even snarl at them to keep their noses out of it as he usually did. Shawn thought it very likely that the shock of seeing his brother again after so many years had thrown Lassiter Off His Game. Together they descended into the depths of the station, where the Medical Examiner's Office was located. Shawn was already chuckling to himself, picturing the reaction Woody would give to _two_ Carlton Lassiters. Quite apart from the fact there might be something down there for Psych to sink its teeth into, this was a moment not to be missed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale

* * *

**Chapter Three: The Surreal Life**

Woody turned around from his perusal of instruments on the side cabinet, looked up, and slammed both hands down onto the examining table before him. He shook his head vigorously.

"I swear, Detective, it was only one little drink. I should have had a bigger lunch," he said.

Lassiter sighed. "You're not seeing double, Woody."

"I'm not? Well, if you're sure." He looked up, and his genial face blanched. "No, it's still there. I knew I shouldn't have had that Raz-Brr-Rita, it goes right to my head."

"Woody, this is my brother Lincoln. Lincoln, this is the County Medical Examiner, Woody Strode."

"You mean he's real?" Woody asked.

"Is _he?" _Lincoln asked, pointing at Woody.

"Woody, yes, Lincoln is real. Lincoln…we're still not entirely sure," Lassiter said.

Woody stuck a hand out. "Nice to make your acquaintance, Lincoln." His hand, gloved, was covered in blood up to the elbow.

Lincoln flashed the peace sign. "I'll take a rain check on the handshake, my man," he said.

Woody dropped his hand, unoffended, and looked from one Lassiter to the other and back again several times. "Wow. You guys look so much alike. Is there any chance you're identical cousins?"

"No, Woody, like I said before, we're…_brothers," _Lassiter said, with a roll of the eyes. "You have the preliminary on that body we found this morning?"

"Why yes I do, Detective - er, you _are_ the detective, aren't you?" Woody said.

"Yeah, Woody, that's me, the one in the suit," Lassiter said, with another eloquent roll of the eyes.

"And what, then, are you, Lincoln? A consultant?" Woody asked.

"I, uh…I manage a small surf shop," Lincoln said.

"Oh, how wonderful! So law enforcement runs in the family, I take it?" Woody said, with a blissful and utterly delusional smile.

Lincoln looked at Lassiter nervously, and Lassiter looked back cooly and jerked his head in a _"Whaddaya gonna do?" _gesture.

"Er…no. Not really," Lincoln said. "Mostly we're gamblers, horse thieves, privateers, that kind of thing."

"We had a few decent ancestors, they were just outnumbered by the horse thieves and cattle rustlers," Lassiter said.

"How many of our distant relations were hanged, CJ? Quite a few, as I recall."

"Probably not as many as deserved it," Lassiter said. "I've always satisfied myself with the fact that three or four of them served with honor in the military, the pride of that being mitigated somewhat by the fact that one or two were subsequently hanged on their return to civilian life. Or sent to the electric chair, as the case may be. But I've got to get back to work now. What have we got on the body, Woody?"

Woody grabbed the sheet covering the examining table and ripped it back with a flourish. _"Voila! _Quite an interesting case, this."

Lincoln's face turned an interesting shade of green and he turned away. Gus made retching noises. Even Shawn looked momentarily sickened. Only Lassiter, who'd seen the original state of the body _in situ_, and of course Woody, were unaffected by the grisly sight. What remained of the head was squashed, like a grape.

"God, what happened to that dude?" Shawn asked, with a grimace.

"Run over by a large vehicle," Woody said. "Forensics's still checking what we were able to determine of tread impressions for matches, but initial comparisons seem to indicate a recreational vehicle like a camper or a trailer."

Shawn spotted the ligature marks on the dead man's wrists. He put a hand to his forehead. "I'm sensing this was no accident. This man was murdered."

Lassiter gave him a dark look. "An excellent guess, Spencer, since the case is being handled by a _Homicide_ detective and not Traffic. He was restrained. We know that much. Whether he was hit deliberately or by accident remains an open question."

"Not any longer," Woody said. "Unless you figure the person who accidentally ran over him once accidentally backed up and accidentally ran over him again. The victim's head was struck by what was most likely the same front tire three times."

"Oh God…" Lincoln said weakly. He and Gus were clinging to each other at the back of the room.

"I thought you'd 'seen stuff,' world-traveler," Lassiter said, quite calmly, not looking up from his examination of the body.

"Not stuff like this."

"Are you going to hurl?"

"No," Lincoln said, but then he glanced up, caught a glimpse of the body on the table, and turned away again with a retching sound.

"Are we any closer to IDing him?" Lassiter asked Woody.

"He does have a couple of interesting jailhouse-style tattoos. Forensics is running his fingerprints. If he's in the system, and the chances are excellent, we'll have his name in a few hours, tops."

"Cause of death?" Lassiter asked.

"You have to ask?" Lincoln said.

"The obvious answer isn't always the _correct _answer," Lassiter said.

"Well, in this case it is. Massive cranial trauma," Woody said. "But his blood work came back with interesting results. He was heavily drugged at the time of death. Traces of heroin and meth amphetamine, but the kicker was a heavy and _recent _dose of Ketamine that was _not, _judging by the injection marks, self-administered."

"Horse tranquilizer? So he was pretty much out of it when the truck or whatever hit him," Lassiter said.

"I guess they weren't too interested in feeling his fear before they killed him," Shawn said. "Poor guy wasn't feeling much of anything before he kicked. Kind of funny. If I was going to kill a guy with an RV, which, let's face it, is a showboaty way to overkill somebody, I'd want him to know it was coming. I mean, why do it if there's no point to it?"

"It could have been a message intended for someone still living," Lassiter said.

"Yeah," Shawn said. Lassiter blinked.

"Excuse me, did you actually just agree with me on something?"

"Well, why else would you drug somebody senseless and then run over their head? If you're sending a very final message to the victim, you wouldn't drug him first. So it must be a message to somebody living, which means somewhere out there someone is in some pretty intensive danger right now."

"If you're sensing anything that would help us narrow the list of potential victims, or indeed potential assailants, down from millions to perhaps half a dozen or so, now would be a good time to mention it," Lassiter said.

"I get nothing from this guy. Maybe if I saw the actual crime scene."

"By the time you've done that, we might have a make on the type of vehicle."

"True, but don't close your mind to the concept of _potentially_ calling us in on this one, Lassy, 'kay?"

"I wasn't suggesting that you shouldn't…wait. You mean you're not going to hound and badger and pester me to put you on this case?" Lassiter gave Shawn an uncertain sidelong glare from under lowering brows. "Who are you and what have you done with Spencer?"

"You've got this, Lassy, you always do. Gus and I are just here for…purposes of expediency," Shawn said, with a bright smile.

Gus, still slightly whey-faced, pulled Shawn aside. "Dude, what are you doing?" he whispered.

"What? It's the truth. Lassy takes a little longer to get there, but he always gets there in the end."

"I know that, Shawn, but ever since you met the guy, you've been bound and determined to knock him down every chance you get. So I reiterate: what are you _doing?"_

Shawn sighed. "Look, Gus, Dude, I already very nearly crushed the little sister adoration of Lauren under the weight of a not-completely-fair assumption that Lassy is an idiot."

"A not _remotely_ fair assumption, Shawn," Gus whispered, severely.

"Right. Well, I'm not going to do it again. And you know how Lassy gets when we're on a case. He's so competitive, he jumps at the wrong damned conclusion with both feet just to get the jump on me. I don't know what Lincoln thinks of his big brother, but I am _not_ going to make Lassy look stupid in front of him."

"Well look at that. Shawn Spencer learns a lesson," Gus said. "I'm proud of you, man. If you could act like this around Lassiter more often, _I_ wouldn't feel like investing in a Kevlar vest."

"Kevlar does no good whatsoever against sword attacks, Gus, you know that," Shawn said.

Gus pointed his finger in Shawn's face. "I hold _you_ responsible for that little episode, Shawn. Yes, Lassy was drugged out on amyl nitrite, but he never would have attacked me if it wasn't for you. He wouldn't have the slightest _problem_ with me if it wasn't for you. _I'm_ a respectful person, Shawn."

"Gus, I can't do this with you right now," Shawn said.

Lassiter wrapped things up with Woody. "Thanks, Woody. I'll get these guys out of here before you have to have somebody in to clean up vomit. Guster, Spencer, quit bickering. Come on, Lincoln, let's go before you have an incident."

"It was nice to meet you, Lincoln," Woody called after them, with a wave of his bloody fingers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale

* * *

**Chapter Four: The Cavernous Pie-Hole**

Lincoln Lassiter stood below the front steps of the Santa Barbara Police Department, soaking up the sunshine and drinking in the fresh air and desperately trying to clear his memory of the vision of the dead man's squashed head. It wasn't working very well, and he knew what he'd be dreaming of tonight. It was a stupid impulse, asking to go down to the coroner's office with his brother, a desire to prove to him that he'd grown up, that he was tough. He wasn't _that _tough, and didn't want to be.

"E-excuse me, sir?" A female voice, uncertain and hesitant. He felt a light touch on his shoulder. He turned. The woman was slim and had honey-golden hair, and beneath the aviator sunglasses she had tipped down with her other hand her eyes were a dark blue-gray with hints of green. Those eyes grew wider at the sight of his face. "Oh, my God. Oh, my _God," _she said.

"Wow," Lincoln said, unable to help himself. He looked her up and down, taking in the neat business suit and the shield badge pinned at her waist. "You're a cop. You probably know my big brother, then, which would explain why you're…taken aback."

"I didn't know Carlton had a brother," she said, in a slightly breathless voice. "Wow, you look so much alike."

"Yeah, kind of scary, huh? Lincoln Lassiter," he said, and held out his hand.

She shook with him. "Juliet O'Hara. I'm Carlton's partner. Why…_why _have I never heard of you before?"

"Oh, you know. CJ doesn't talk much, and I'm kind of the family black sheep. Not that we're not a whole family of black sheep, but my wool is the blackest. Then, too, I've been out of town for the last…_decade and a half, _so you wouldn't have met me."

"C…J?"

"Yeah, I'm probably the last holdout of people who call him that. 'Carlton' is kind of a stuffy name for a kid, not that he wasn't an exceptionally stuffy kid."

"I guess I kind of thought you would call him 'Booker,'" Juliet said.

Lincoln laughed. "Oh, no. 'Booker' is reserved solely for mother. No one else ever dared call him that."

Juliet smiled. "He doesn't like it," she said.

"I couldn't tell ya. _Dad_ didn't like it. 'CJ' was okay with him, but not 'Booker.' Mom wanted to name CJ 'Booker,' but Dad overruled her. You didn't let Dad catch you calling him 'Booker.' Pissed him right the hell off."

"I've met your mother," Juliet said.

"And you survived? You must be an unusually tough lady," Lincoln said, with a laugh.

"…But I've never met your father. Carlton doesn't talk about him much, either." She was thinking of his quick retort to museum curator Christopher Holm when he asked, referring to the value of the paintings stolen out from under Shawn's nose, "Could you put a value on your own father?" Lassiter's immediate response was "Three hundred and eighty-seven thousand," which still had her scratching her head.

"It's too much to hope that the bastard is dead," Lincoln said, in a startlingly genial voice. "CJ said he hasn't heard from him, but I'd bet good money he knows where he is. Not that any of us is going to be looking him up or anything."

"You're estranged?" she asked.

"To put it mildly," Lincoln said. "Dad ran off when Lulu was little. It was the only nice thing he ever did for his family. Well, for the bulk of his family. He used to take CJ to see the Civil War reenactments or to NRA conventions. When he was sober, and out of jail."

"He didn't do anything nice for _you?"_ Juliet knew she was prying, and knew she shouldn't, but a Lassiter that actually…talked…was a novel experience, and she was a detective, with rampant curiosity.

Lincoln shook his head. "Nicest thing he did for me was pretend I didn't exist, which believe me, is the way I preferred it. CJ was always the favorite, Mom's and Dad's both, but don't start thinking we were envious, because while he might have been the one Dad treated halfways decent some of the time, he was also the one that got beat."

Juliet couldn't have heard him right. "…Beat?"

"Yeah. I don't remember ever seeing Dad _start out _beating CJ, it was usually Mom. Sometimes it was me or my big sister Geena. But he never got the chance to tool up on us much. CJ always stepped in. I think some of my earliest memories are of seeing those two go at it, a full-grown man against a skinny little kid. If Dad was drunk enough, he'd beat CJ to a pulp. But somehow or other, it always seemed that no matter how badly beaten he was, CJ always threw the last punches. He never backed down. Look up the definition of the Fightin' Irish, and you'll see a picture of Carlton Lassiter."

He rattled off the memory as if it were a matter of no consequence. Something that impressed him, yes, but nothing that troubled him. Juliet, on the other hand, was floored. She'd always instinctively known that Carlton had been hurt badly in his life, but out-and-out _abused?_

"And no one…did anything…to stop this?" she asked, tightly, in a dangerous voice.

Lincoln shrugged. "No one really knew what to do. Sure, Mom called the cops on him a few times, but they always let him out after a few days or so and he always came right back home. Don't go thinking of CJ as some kind of _victim. _He never was, never. And he didn't have to grow up all that much before he was giving as good as he got. I kind of think Dad left because he knew CJ would pound his ass into the pavement next time he got handsy with one of us. Especially once Lauren was born. CJ was prepared to tear Dad a new one if he so much as looked at her the wrong way. He was protective of us, but he was downright _scary_ about her. He didn't want Dad to get anywhere near her."

Lincoln shook his head. "There was always only ever two career choices for CJ: Cop or serial killer. I for one am glad he went with the badge. I mean, I don't _think_ there's bodies hidden in his basement."

"_Lincoln!"_

Lincoln flinched at the familiar whip-crack voice. "I'll never outgrow that," he said, for the second time, and turned to greet his brother, who came trotting down the police station stairs at a good clip, buttoning his suit coat. "Hey, CJ, just shootin' the breeze with your lovely partner," he said.

"Shooting the breeze? Running your cavernous pie-hole, more like. Keep it buttoned," Lassiter said, scowling.

"Carlton, Lincoln was just telling me that you have another _sister_ I didn't know about," Juliet said, as brightly as she could manage. "Geena?"

"She lives in New Jersey," Lassiter said, with a narrow look at his partner, as if he didn't trust her with even that much information.

"So then there's four of you, right? What's the birth order? You, Geena, Lincoln, then Lauren?"

"Yes. Your point?"

"Oh, no point, really. I just never imagined you came from such a big family - though if I had to guess, I would always have guessed you were the oldest."

He continued to regard her silently in that narrow way for a moment, then turned back to his brother and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You feeling better?" he asked.

"I'm not about to hurl on your nice, shiny leather shoes, big bro, if that's what you mean," Lincoln said.

"Good. Listen, my watch is up at five. What say I swing by your place at five-thirty and take you out to dinner?"

Lincoln goggled at him. "You can think of food after what we've just seen?"

"What have you just seen?" Juliet asked.

Lassiter ignored her. "I worked through lunch. I'm starving. You can pick the place, I just want to eat."

Lincoln cringed, then relaxed. "Okay, okay. I…haven't really gotten reacquainted with Santa Barbara eateries in the time I've been back, so you pick the place. Just…no Mexican. Or Italian. Or anything…saucy. Anything that might look like…what we just saw."

"How about Rodeo's? It's a steakhouse. Not very dressy, either."

Lincoln smiled. "Because you rightfully mistrust my ability to dress up. Sounds good to me, big bro. I'll be closing up the surf shop for the day around about that time, so pick me up there." He gave the address.

"Got it. No wonder those two idiots found you; that's right down the boardwalk from the Psych office," Lassiter said.

"Where are those guys? They're my lift back to the shop," Lincoln said.

"Still down in Autopsy playing with Woody. They're almost as cracked as he is, so they get along well. I'll send somebody down there to tell 'em to hurry up." Lassiter started to turn towards the building, then turned back. "I've been meaning to ask you…how are you set for living arrangements? Please tell me you're not sleeping in a van in a parking lot."

Lincoln's well-tanned face blanched ghostly pale. "No, no, of course not. I've got a…a place."

Lassiter nodded. "Uh huh. At least tell me it's _your_ damned van."

Lincoln gulped. "It's my damned parking space," he said, in a very small voice.

"Lincoln. You can't live in a rental van in a parking lot," Lassiter said. "I've got room at my place; come live with me."

"Aw, bro, I can't do that," Lincoln began.

"_Lincoln," _Lassiter said. It was all he said. Lincoln flinched at the sound of his name.

"I'll never outgrow that," he said yet again, and sighed. "All right, big bro - for a little while, 'til I find my own place."

"All right. I'll see you tonight." Lassiter turned and went back inside the station.

"It was nice meeting you, Lincoln," Juliet said, offering her hand.

"Likewise, Detective. Just out of curiosity, might I ask how long you've been partnered up with big bro?"

"Almost eight years," Juliet said.

"And let me guess, you know jack squat about him."

"I know _some_ things," she said, a bit uncomfortably.

"Here, let me give you my cell phone number. As the Lassiter Family Gossip, I'm more than happy to disseminate all available information on CJ or any other topic you'd like to discuss. Call me up and we'll dish. I'll tell you everything you never knew you didn't want to know. I'll even tell you how he messed up his nose."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale

* * *

**Chapter Five: Rap Sheet**

Juliet entered the station, not entirely certain why her feet felt like concrete blocks attached to her legs. Shawn and Gus passed her on the way out, and she exchanged greetings with Gus and allowed Shawn to peck her on the cheek and pinch her on the bottom, but she barely registered it even as it happened. Meeting Lincoln, and hearing that awful story about his father, and the guilty knowledge of the cell phone number he'd entered into her phone, weighed her down. Carlton wouldn't like to find out she was talking to his brother about…past history. She knew that as certainly as she knew her name. She also knew with certainty that she would avail herself of Lincoln's willingness to "dish" about his brother, because dammit, she'd waited eight long years to learn what really made her partner tick. Where he came from. What had made him so fiercely guarded.

What made him _him_, the best damned detective on the force, the best damned partner she could have, the best damned _friend_ she'd made in eight years in Santa Barbara.

And yeah, she was _fairly_ certain there weren't any bodies hidden in his basement.

She returned to her desk, carefully not looking across the bullpen aisle to where he sat at his desk, and lowered herself into her office chair. Then and only then she chanced a glance at him, his strong profile limned sharply against the light streaming in from the nearest window. He was going over a file, in his usual meticulous fashion, his attention unwavering. Laser focused. Every angle of the way he sat his chair and read that damned file spoke to his dedication, his sense of responsibility, and his determination. But now, looking at him, she was struck with the image of a small, dark-haired, blue-eyed boy. The boy he'd been once upon a time, a creature that had always seemed as unlikely to her as a unicorn or a pegasus. What was he like back then? What were his dreams? His hopes? Who did he turn to when he needed strength and comfort? Even as a child, did he ever let himself show that kind of weakness?

He had learned, over the years of their partnership, to accept and dispense the occasional hug. Their first awkward embrace struck her at the time as a major victory. Now she wondered just how big a battle she'd been waging, all unknown to her. And how far inside his well-defended heart he'd allowed her.

And she wondered, yes indeed she did, whether she was as deeply inside his heart now as she had been back then. He'd tried hard, in the wake of the revelation that she was dating Shawn, to put his hurt and anger aside, and he'd done a remarkably good job of pretending their partnership was as strong as it ever was, but…it wasn't. Though he was still there, solid and dependable and real, willing even to share still in the occasional not-quite-so-awkward hug, he remained subtly…remote. And for a man who spoke so little of personal matters to begin with, that sort of remoteness was a big deal. She knew he still trusted her with his _life_ - they were partners, by God - but she thought he no longer trusted her nearly so much with his _heart. _She missed that trust.

God, she wanted to go over and hug the big lug, but that would lead to awkward questions about _why_ she was hugging him, and she couldn't explain it was because she knew now that once upon a time there'd been a little boy who was abused by his father. Lincoln had been adamant that Carlton was never a victim, but of _course_ he was. He was just a little boy.

Still, it didn't surprise her to learn that he always fought back. "The definition of the Fightin' Irish," Lincoln had called him, and in that, she agreed. She'd seen him grapple with men twice his size in the line of duty, and he never showed the slightest hint of trepidation. He was also remarkably likely to come out on top in these battles: though he was not, by any measure, a small man, his slim build belied a deceptive strength, and he was an excellent hand-to-hand fighter. It had always given her intense satisfaction to see the look on some big, dumb bruiser's face when his attempt to resist arrest was put down - violently and with decision - by a man who looked so much like the Scarecrow from the _Wizard of Oz_. Almost as much satisfaction as it gave her to take down some big, dumb bruiser herself.

She returned her attention to her work, but curiosity gnawed at her and wouldn't let her concentrate. There was only one question she could think of to ask that wouldn't engender questions of its own, so she raised her head and asked it.

"Carlton?"

He looked over at her. "Yes?"

"What's your middle name?"

"Jebediah."

She closed her eyes. "Oh, my…"

"It's not so bad," he said.

She opened her eyes again. "It's _not?"_

His face twisted up into an expression of disgust. "Had my mother got her way, my name would be 'Booker _Tiberius,'" _he said, with a verbal sneer. "She wanted this name so badly that to this day she insists on calling me 'Booker.' 'Carlton Jebediah' is not _so_ bad, even though Carlton _is_ my dad's middle name."

"What's your dad's first name?" she asked.

His lip curled in a not very friendly smile. "Sean," he said.

"_Shawn?"_

"Sean," he repeated, still with that not very friendly smile, and then turned back to his work.

Juliet turned back to her desk and immediately logged into her computer. She called up a records search of Shawn Carlton Lassiter, but the computer merely beeped and nothing came back. She shook her head, deleted the first name, and typed in "Sean."

Sean Carlton Lassiter turned out to have quite the rap sheet. Endless counts of DUI (he had apparently somehow managed to avoid losing his license, perhaps because most of the incidents occurred before the three-strikes law went into effect), petty theft, vandalism, assault, domestic violence, public intoxication, disturbing the peace, solicitation of prostitution (getting caught with prostitutes, she assumed, not actually being one), bookmaking. His most recent mug shot, taken three years previous, mocked her with its resemblance to her partner. The same "strong Irish hairline," the black more liberally streaked with silver, the same vivid blue eyes, the same aquiline nose (lacking the distinctive crookedness), and the same damned colorless mole on his chin.

She stared at that picture for a long moment, and hated this man she'd never met. She had sympathy for anyone with a deadbeat dad, being Frank O'Hara's daughter, but crook though he was, Frank had nothing on _this_ monster. Wife-beaters were monsters, but there was a special corner of Hell reserved for anyone who'd dare beat up a child.

She took a closer look at the most recent offense. DUI, predictably, with a side-charge of resisting arrest. And oh, look at that; the arresting officer was one Carlton Lassiter. It gave her a savage sort of satisfaction to think he'd been the one to put the man in cuffs, and she doubted he'd been at all gentle about putting down the man's "resistance."

"Detective O'Hara, I trust this is official police business?"

The voice startled her. Guiltily, she looked up at Chief Karen Vick, who stood at her elbow stirring creamer into her coffee. But she didn't feel _terribly_ guilty. She gestured at the computer screen and spoke in a low voice, pitched so as not to carry across the bullpen aisle.

"Chief, did you know?" she asked.

Vick set her coffee down on Juliet's desk and leaned in close to pitch her voice just as low. "About Lassiter's father? O'Hara, when one of my officers arrests his own father, I take a certain interest."

Juliet pitched her voice even lower, her whisper intense. "Did you know he _beat_ Carlton? When Carlton was just a little boy?"

Vick blinked. "Did Carlton tell you that?"

"No, Lincoln did."

"Who's Lincoln?" Vick asked.

"Carlton's brother."

Vick's eyes popped wide for the briefest of moments. "Carlton has a brother?"

"You didn't meet him? He was here at the station just a few minutes ago. He's a little younger and his nose is straight, but they could just as easily be twins."

"I didn't meet him. I was in a telephone conference until just a moment ago. I knew Carlton came from…difficult circumstances…but no, I didn't have the faintest inkling there was a history of abuse."

"If _I_ ever arrest this bastard, I'll probably get slapped with charges of police brutality," Juliet said, with heat. "I'll deserve it, too."

"O'Hara, I understand your feelings, believe me, but don't say things like that, particularly to me," Vick said. "I remember that last arrest; I watched Carlton's dashboard cam recording of it, just to see what this 'resisting arrest' charge was about. His father was belligerent, and took a swing at him. Carlton got him in a control hold and slapped the cuffs on him, neat and quick and clean. No muss, no fuss, no bother. If _he_ can control himself with regards to that man, no one else has any call to do otherwise."

"I suppose you're right, Chief. Still, there are…_things_…I'd like to do to anyone who would dare abuse a child. Horrible, illegal things."

"I understand, O'Hara, but don't. You are a servant of the _law."_

"Yes, Chief," Juliet said, and closed out the records search.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale

**A/N:** The "father and son" incident comes from my own life. My dad and big brother were checking into a hotel, and the concierge asked them if they were brothers. My dad, of course, liked this very much, while my brother…did not.

* * *

**Chapter Six: Rodeo's**

The western theme at Rodeo's Steakhouse was surprisingly low-key. There were saddles on the low half-walls between some of the booths, and lariats on the walls, and peanut shells on the floor, but no Country music played over a sound system and the wait staff wore white shirts with neat black vests rather than western shirts and cowboy hats. The host at the door did not greet customers with a hearty "Howdy, y'all." Given his brother's love of the Wild West, Lincoln was both surprised and pleased.

He didn't even look terribly out of place in his cargo shorts and flip flops, though of course he contrasted oddly with his brother even though Lassiter had taken off his suit coat and tie. The host seated them in a booth near the bar and a waitress, a perky blonde who looked all of eighteen, if that, came to take their drink orders. She was chewing a piece of gum, which snapped as she spoke.

"Wow. You guys are, like…_father and son, _aren't you?" she said, looking from one to the other. Lincoln immediately broke up laughing, while Lassiter sat in stunned silence.

"Oh honey, I like you," Lincoln said, when he was capable of saying anything.

"_Father and son?!" _Lassiter said, when he found his voice again.

"You need to dye your sideburns, bro," Lincoln said, laughing still. "This kind of thing wouldn't happen."

"What can I get you guys to drink?" the waitress asked. _Snap, pop, snap _went her gum.

"Bourbon. Make it a double," Lassiter said, with his face in his hand.

"Beer for me. PBR, if you got it," Lincoln said.

"Comin' right up," she said, with a smile and a flirty wave of her fingers in his direction. Lincoln waved back, with a smile of his own. Yeah, she was too young for him, but what the hell? A man can dream.

Lassiter looked at him through his fingers. "What is it with you?"

"What?" Lincoln asked.

Lassiter put his hand down on the tabletop. "You've always been this way. The girls _flock_ to you. I don't get it. I look like you. Girls do _not _flock to me."

"Oh big brother, we have the same face but I wear it so much better," Lincoln said, shaking his head. "It's all about _attitude_. Look at me. I'm all about the free and easy life, right? Everything about me screams 'fun.' _You_, on the other hand…well, there's screaming involved, but it's not screaming about fun. You're too tense. Too _angry._ Even when you're not angry, you're angry. And frankly I'm worried. You ordered a pretty stiff drink. You know full well our family has…_issues_…with alcohol."

Lassiter passed his hand through his hair. "Lincoln, our father is a slick man who is an _angry_ drunk. I am an _angry_ man who is a _maudlin _drunk. And I won't be getting drunk tonight. Don't worry about it."

"Do you get drunk often?"

"No."

"How often is no?"

Lassiter sighed. "Once in awhile."

"That's kind of vague."

"Drop it," Lassiter said, through his teeth, and Lincoln did.

The waitress returned, carrying a tray. "Double-shot of bourbon," she said, setting the glass down in front of Lassiter, "and a Pabst for you, cutie."

"I hate you," Lassiter said to his brother.

Lincoln raised his hands. "Hate the game, not the playa," he said, grinning.

"You guys ready to order, or do you still need a minute?" the waitress asked, snapping her gum.

"Give us a minute," Lassiter said, and the waitress nodded and left them alone again.

Lincoln opened up his menu and began perusing the listed meals. "So…am I to assume, since I'm moving in with _you _and not _you and_, that things didn't work out between you and Veronica?"

"Victoria. And no, we divorced a few years ago."

"I would presume you'd tell me if you had any kids, but with you, one can never presume anything."

"No, I don't have any kids."

Lincoln glanced up at him. "I don't mean to rankle any wounds, big bro, but I told you so."

"You told me _what?"_

"That it would never work out between you and that woman. She was a rich-bitch. Hard as you work, big brother, you were never going to earn enough on a cop's salary to keep her in the sort of life she believed she deserved."

"We didn't get divorced over money," Lassiter said, and Lincoln smirked in response. "Well, not _solely_ over money."

"I bet it was a damn big factor. Oh, that and the job. She wanted to live high on the hog but resented the fact that you spent all your time at work, earning the money to keep her in her accustomed lifestyle."

Lassiter flushed and turned his attention to his own menu.

"Have you been married?" he asked, almost casually, after a moment.

"Who, me? Nah. Hell, I've never had a relationship that went beyond a few nights in bed," Lincoln said. "Part of the reason I came home. I'm getting too old for that kind of a life. It's time to think about putting down some roots."

"Disturbingly mature concept, for you," Lassiter said. "Are you in danger of growing up?"

"Yeah yeah. Speaking of relationships…that partner of yours is pretty cute. Is she seeing anyone?"

Lassiter shot him a quick glare. "She has a boyfriend," he said, severely, and then his expression grew thoughtful. He looked at his brother appraisingly for a moment and seemed to come to a decision. "You know what? Forget I said anything."

Lincoln laughed. "I take it you don't approve of the boyfriend."

"You know that idiot Spencer who brought you by the station today? _He's _the boyfriend."

Lincoln shook his head. "Wow, did not see that one coming. I mean, I know I only just met the guy, and the girl for that matter, but he seems so…_wacky_…and she seems so…_adult_. They make for kind of an odd couple, don't they?"

"You have no idea. Honestly, the way he treats her makes me want to shoot the ass hat, but I promised O'Hara I wouldn't stick my nose into her business after I…I…"

"After you _what?" _Lincoln asked. He grinned and leaned forward. "Come on, big brother, spill it. I've got a feeling it's good."

Lassiter scratched his ear. "After I…polygraphed her."

Lincoln sat back, laughing helplessly. "Oh, broheim. What did you _do?"_

"She _lied_ to me," Lassiter said. "Me, her _partner_. Partners aren't supposed to _lie_ to each other. What's worse is that I know, thanks to him, she's lied to me a thousand times since…little lies, maybe a few big ones, because _he's_ a liar, and there's no way she's not getting caught up in his web of lies…and I…_I_ have to pretend to be _okay_ with that, because no matter how much I _said_ I wanted a new partner in the wake of that betrayal the truth of the matter is that O'Hara is the best friend…is the _only _friend I've got, and _I can't lose that."_

Lassiter sat back in the booth in an attitude of dejection, and Lincoln regarded him with guarded sympathy. "God, bro, that sucks. How long have you been in love with her?"

Lassiter gaped at him. "I don't…I'm not…I'm not _in love _with O'Hara," he managed at last.

"Yeah, right. Have you tried telling her?"

"_I am not in love with O'Hara."_

"You can say it as many times and as loud as you want, bro, it's not going to make the lie any more believable. Of course, maybe you've been lying to yourself, and _you_ believe it."

Fortunately the waitress came back then, and giving his order provided Lassiter with a convenient excuse to put the subject by. She left with their menus and he changed the subject.

"So, what have you been doing with yourself for the last fifteen years? You must have done _something_, to come here with enough money to start up a business."

"I robbed banks, stagecoaches, mail trains, that kind of thing."

"Ha ha."

"Come on, bro, you know what I did. I _surfed."_

"You can make _money _doing that?"

"If you can get a sponsorship."

"You didn't surf in Ireland. I remember you mentioning you went there," Lassiter said, and sat back in the booth.

"That was kind of a vacation," Lincoln said. "Have you ever been there?"

"No."

"You should go, bro. You'll find your _soul."_

"My soul is not in Ireland," Lassiter said.

"No, but you'll get in touch with it there." He toyed with the cloth napkin next to his setting of silverware_. "I _did."

"You've never been the 'soul-searching' type, Lincoln," Lassiter said.

Lincoln shook his shaggy head. "I didn't go there looking for it. But I found it. Despite all the pubs I hit. I'll tell you all about it, bro, but later. Right now I wanna talk about _you_ a little bit. So you're divorced, and though you don't want to admit it, you're in love with someone who is unavailable. Are you seeing anybody?"

"Not regularly."

"How about _irregularly?" _Lincoln asked.

"I've had dates, here and there. They never seem to work out very well except once in a great while, and even then something always goes screwy, usually the woman."

"For instance?"

"I'm not going to give you _examples," _Lassiter said, heatedly. "Suffice it to say, my romantic life is what it has always been: mostly cold."

"Youngest Head Detective in Santa Barbara history. That's pretty big. You don't want to brag up about it to me?"

Lassiter cocked a questioning eyebrow. "Did Spencer tell you that?"

"No, man. I Googled you. Every chance I got, because believe it or not, I'm proud of my big brother. I also had to know you weren't _shot_ - which, by the way, I notice you haven't made mention of, though I know for a fact you have been, and recently, too. You might have Googled _me_ once in awhile, if you'd thought of it. I exist on the internet."

Lassiter sipped his bourbon and put the glass back down. He turned it a quarter turn and stared at the water ring beading up around the base. "Yeah, well…I did. But finding out that you'd won a surfing competition in Queensland or Waikiki wasn't really telling me much of anything other than the fact that you were, indeed, still alive. And such news was rare enough that I was always left with a degree of doubt on that score."

"Sorry, man. You want to tell me about the shooting?"

"Not really."

"Come on."

"Listen, it wasn't my finest hour, okay? First I step in a goddamn bear trap, fall into an ice-cold river and nearly drown, then we get attacked by a bunch of Serbians and I…got shot. In the shoulder. I was lucky - _damned_ lucky - but it still took a ridiculously long time before I was fully functional again."

"Was that your first time being shot?" Lincoln asked.

"Google didn't crop up the other incidents? No, I'd been shot before. Twice, but once I was wearing Kevlar, so that doesn't really count. Though it still hurts a bitch, let me tell you."

"Damn, bro. And you think you've been worried about _me," _Lincoln said, with a shake of his head.

"When are you planning on telling Mom you're back?" Lassiter asked.

Lincoln rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, yeah…about that. See, I was kind of…hoping…maybe…_you_ could tell her for me."

"Lincoln, be a man."

"I _am_ a man. But I'm not a Viking warrior, and it would take something along those lines to beard that particular lioness in her den."

"You've got to learn to stand up to her sooner or later."

"Come _on, _bro," Lincoln whined.

Lassiter sighed. "Okay, listen. I'll tell her I'm bringing a guest to Sunday dinner."

Lincoln put his head down on the table. "Oh, man."

"Come on, Lincoln. It's the least you can do, literally."

Lincoln looked up. "I'm gonna need backup. If I'm going to spring myself on Ma like a rabbit out of a hat, I want _two_ people with guns at the kitchen table. Invite that partner of yours along, too."

Lassiter sipped his bourbon again. "I wouldn't do that to O'Hara."

"But you'd do it to _me? _Come on, bro, work with me, here. If you don't ask her, I will."

"You? You just met her," Lassiter said.

"Yes, but I'm your long-lost and previously unsuspected brother, and she finds my existence fascinating," Lincoln said.

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Fine, if it'll make you feel better, I'll invite O'Hara along. But don't expect her to actually show up. I'm sure she has plans for her weekend that don't include a Lassiter Family Dinner."


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale

**A/N: **For _LassietFanGirl1, _whom I can't respond to directly, yes, this story will eventually be a Lassiet. The transition from Shules to Lassiet is planned out, and I'm just hoping the story doesn't take a left turn before I get that far. Loafer got me started riding the Lassiet train, too, so I know where you're coming from. And yes, Lincoln is just a slightly younger Tim Omundson, with "hiatus hair." :-D

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Snapped**

O'Hara, much to Lassiter's surprise, _leaped_ to accept his halfhearted invitation to Sunday dinner at his mother's house.

"Understand me, I'm not asking because this is in any way something you should think about _doing," _he said, warningly, "but because I promised Lincoln. He's got a crazy idea that he'll be safer with _two_ gun-toting people at the table."

Juliet laughed. "You talk like this is an invitation to a gang summit."

"You've _met_ my mother," Lassiter said.

"And I've spoken with her on the phone. And though I will admit that telephone conversation left me with some lingering…scars…in person she seemed…kinda nice. Apart from criticizing your palette choices."

"Yes, but you didn't spend a lot of time in the same room with her, and she had a buffet of victims at that painting party. Like the jackal, she always goes after the weakest prey. She chose McNab. Poor dope."

Juliet's eyes widened. "What did she say to him?"

"Oh, many things. She criticized him on everything from his choice of clothing - to _paint_ in - to his hair and his height. Told him a man should never be taller than six-two. That he was just…ungainly."

"Ouch. That was…uncalled for."

"Everything that comes out of my mother's mouth is generally uncalled for. But it was okay, because the Chief hustled McNab out of the room at that point and Henry chimed in with a few choice observations about my mother which certainly did _my_ heart good to hear after forty-three years of thinking them."

"Oh yeah? What did your mother do then?"

"She started in on Woody, but everything she said just kind of rolled off his back. You know Woody."

Juliet laughed. "Be that as it may, I would love to come over for Sunday dinner," she said, with a poke in his chest to emphasize her words. "Will I be the weakest prey at the dinner table?"

"Not by a long shot," Lassiter said, with a roll of the eyes. "That honor will go to Lincoln, but it's all right, because I know how to turn that around."

"Is this something you do every Sunday?" Juliet asked. "Dinner at Mom's house?"

"Every time I can make it," he amended. "Sometimes I'm lucky enough to get called away to a murder-suicide, or something like that."

"If you don't like it, why do you go?" she asked.

"The weight of tradition," he said. "The Lassiter children who remained in Santa Barbara are shackled with it. Lauren hasn't spoken a word to Mother in at least three years, but she still shows up every Sunday."

"That must be awkward."

"It actually works out for the best," Lassiter said. "I wish sometimes the silent treatment would work for me."

He told her they'd pick her up Sunday afternoon around three, and bade her once again to change her mind. "I wouldn't inflict this on my partner if my partner was a German Shepherd, O'Hara," he said.

"Relax, Carlton, I'm looking forward to it. Oh, what style of dress would be appropriate? Being the Lassiter family, I'm assuming something fairly classy."

"Ha, you'd be the first to ever suggest the Lassiter family has anything to do with class," he said. "But we always wear our Sunday best, so I'd say dressy-casual."

"Will you be wearing a suit jacket?" she asked, with an elevated eyebrow.

"No, but I will be wearing a tie."

"Thought so. I'll dress nice, don't worry. Lincoln won't be wearing his cargo shorts, will he?" she asked.

"I'll probably have to loan him something to wear. Good thing we're the same size."

"You're the same _everything," _she said.

"We really don't have much in common beyond our looks," he said. "That, and the crappy childhood."

"Well, I'm sorry about that," she said.

He shrugged. "It is what it is. I'm not trying to complain. A lot of kids have it way worse than we did."

Privately she wondered about that. Sure, as a cop, she knew just how horrifying "horrific" could be, but those were only varying shades of horror and nobody should have to go through any of it. "Lincoln had one awesome thing you never had in _his_ childhood."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? What?"

"An _excellent _big brother," she said, and returned to her desk.

Lassiter sat back down at his. "I doubt _he'd_ tell you I was all that excellent," he said, under his breath, but Juliet heard him and threw her pen at him, which bounced off the sleeve of his shirt. "What was _that_ for?" he demanded.

"_Don't _put yourself down," she said severely, and pulled another pen out of her desk drawer. She returned to her paperwork with a furious glare at him that had him scratching his head. Just what was the deal?

He turned his attention to his work, and by the time Spencer and Guster sauntered into the station that afternoon he'd forgotten all about O'Hara's strange outburst.

Shawn and Gus wandered semi-purposefully up to his desk, and Shawn stuck a hand to his forehead. "I sense that, at dinner last night, you failed to alienate your brother," he said, rather grandly.

"Picked that up psychically, did you, or did you walk the fifteen feet down the boardwalk from your office to his shop?" Lassiter asked, with an elevated eyebrow.

"The latter," Gus supplied, helpfully.

Shawn grimaced at him. "Gus. Dude. Seriously."

"Come _on_, Son," Gus said, with an Ed Lover-style grimace of his own. "You think _Lincoln_ won't tell him we've talked?"

"Point taken. Anyways, Lassy, the spirits are in turmoil, because they had it pegged you wouldn't make it through the first drink without driving him to disappear back into the ether from whence he arrived."

"_Shut it, Shawn," _Juliet said, with a fierce expression on her pretty face. Lassiter looked over at her in shock.

"O'Hara, are you feeling all right today?" he asked, remembering the pen.

She brushed a tendril of hair from her face. "I'm fine, Carlton."

"You're sure?"

"Yes." A degree or so too bright, like it was forced, but could he argue with it?

He turned back to the Wonder Twits. "Did you have something business-related to discuss or are you just here to flap your gums?" he asked.

"Come on, Lassy, we're curious. The baby brother comes home after fifteen years away, moves in…how's it going?"

"It's been one night," Lassiter said, dryly.

"Yes, but the two of you are so fundamentally different, it's hard to imagine you cohabitating."

Lassiter picked up his pen and turned it over in his hands. "Yeah, he _told_ me how you mistook him for me. _Psychic."_

Shawn laughed chestily. "What? Come on, seriously? You think that I would…okay, yeah, we mistook him for you. But you guys do look frighteningly, terrifyingly alike. Except for the fact that his nose doesn't have an elbow. I wasn't talking about your physical similarities but your personal psychological astrological differences. I mean, Lincoln is actually kind of…_cool."_

"Despite having been named for a dead President," Gus added.

"Right. Despite the obvious disadvantages of having that name, and being your brother, and looking like you, Lincoln is really pretty cool," Shawn said. "He surfs, he wears his hair a little longer to cover up the big, floppy ears, he has a piercing, though I notice he hasn't been wearing an earring, maybe because he didn't want you to find out he has a piercing, he dresses like a normal human being who does normal human things, and he doesn't smell like gun oil. And he has an actual tan. And I think, judging by the way he flirts with female customers, that he's kind of a playa. In all, he's really a man I can…_respect."_

"_Shut up, Shawn," _O'Hara said again, just as fiercely as before.

"Jules, what is the problem?" Shawn asked.

"You, Shawn. You are the problem. Stop putting Carlton down. Just stop it."

"Jules. It's just comradely banter. Man stuff. Bonding."

"It's juvenile horsecrap, Shawn. It's playground-level bullying. Stop it."

Shawn looked at Lassiter. "Lassy. Really? You've got _Jules_ fighting your battles for you now? How lame is that?"

Lassiter stood up, slowly. "No one fights my battles for me, Spencer," he said, tightly. "No one ever _has, _no one ever will."

Juliet stood up, too, and crossed the bullpen with an angry stride. "You don't have to fight alone anymore, Carlton. I've got your back. I'm your partner."

"Jules, what is up with you today?" Shawn asked.

"Seriously, O'Hara, what _is _up with you today? Eight years I've been putting up with Spencer bullcrunch, and the most you've done is roll your eyes at him - but usually at me. What makes you think you have to leap to my defense _now?"_

"I'm just sick of it, that's all. And no, you don't need me to fight your battles for you but goddamn it, I'm your partner, which makes them _my_ battles, too. Shawn, when you put Carlton down you put _my partner_ down. My _best friend_. I won't stand for it anymore. It ends _now."_

Shawn raised his hands in surrender. "Okay. Jeez. Jules. Okay."

"_Enough_, Shawn. If you don't have anything important to talk about, just _go away."_

He followed her back to her desk. "Well I really…didn't…come here to talk with Lassy, Jules, I came here to talk with _you_. It's time for you to break clear of this joint and come out for smoothies and enchiladas with me and Gus."

She sat down and tucked that tendril of hair back behind her ear again. "Thanks, Shawn, but I don't really feel like smoothies and enchiladas."

He looked at her like she had suddenly lapsed into an alien language. "Jules. _Smoothies. _Pineapple deliciousness. The cure for all of life's ills."

"Go on, then. Enjoy," she said, with a false smile.

"O'Hara, it _is_ time for lunch. Past time, really. You should get something to eat," Lassiter said, surprising her.

"I will, Carlton, but I'm just not up for smoothies and enchiladas. And your brother is here. I would assume he wants to talk to you." She nodded toward the front of the bullpen, where Lincoln had just appeared by the conference room door, as far into the station as visitors were typically allowed.

Lassiter got up and walked over to him. Shawn followed, which of course meant Gus followed as well. Uneasy about this, Juliet got up from her desk and hurried after them.

Shawn pushed ahead of Lassiter and greeted Lincoln first, with an overly ornate fist-bumping handshake that Lincoln seemed to return only out of good manners. Juliet caught herself thinking, _You might think Lincoln is cool, Shawn, but I don't think he thinks_ you_ are so much._

"Big brother. I just stopped by to see if you wanted to go to lunch with me. My treat," Lincoln said. He nodded at Juliet. "You can come along, too, if you'd like, Detective. I thought maybe sloppy joes. I found out that place we used to go to down by the beach is still open. Jordy's."

"I haven't been there in forever," Lassiter said.

"Sounds good to me," Juliet said, brightly. "As long as you're sure I won't be a fifth wheel."

Shawn squeezed her face. "Jules. You'll be a fifth wheel, but a delightful one." He threw his arms over Lincoln and Lassiter's shoulders. "I'm fine with sloppy joes, but I will require a stop for smoothies."

Lassiter pushed him away. "I don't believe you were invited, ass hat."

Shawn stumbled, recovered, and grinned. "Dude, of course I was invited. Right, Lincoln?"

"Sorry, Dude. Some other time, maybe," Lincoln said. Something in his bearing seemed to say _But probably not._

Shawn looked incredulous, though he still smiled. "But dude, you invited Jules. She's my girlfriend. That's the same as inviting me. And inviting me is the same as inviting Gus."

"My wallet can't stand for that kind of logic, dude," Lincoln said. "I invited my brother and his _partner, _not my brother and your girlfriend. I _would_ invite you along, but I've come back around to my original analysis, and believe that you are the type of person who gets my brother tightly wound, and CJ all wound up is a scenario I don't care to deal with if I don't have to. Call me cowardly. I don't mind. Now, if Detective O'Hara can't see herself separated from you for an hour, then perhaps she'll understand if we do this another time."

Juliet blinked, several times. So did Shawn. Gus looked downright floored. Lincoln had delivered that rejection with both Lassiterian directness and a degree of finesse that was most definitely _un_Lassiterian, and it was clear he had Shawn on the ropes. Juliet wasn't used to seeing that. But she kind of liked it.

Oh yeah. Especially today.

"I have no problem whatsoever with being separated from Shawn for an hour," she said.

"Jules," Shawn said, whining.

"Smoothies, Shawn. Go with Gus and get smoothies. The cure for all the world's ills," she said, without mercy. She then slipped her arms through two different Lassiters' elbows and walked with them out of the station.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. May contain spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

**A/N: **For "Potato." Thanks for reviewing! Glad you're enjoying it thus far. Hope it continues to entertain.

* * *

**Chapter Eight: I Wouldn't Say No to a Sloppy Joe**

Sloppy joes with the Lassiter brothers was fun, especially since Shawn didn't show up to spoil it as Juliet had more than half expected. She felt this might be due to the allure of smoothies, but more likely Gus had put his foot down, as he so seldom did. She loved Shawn, but his endless campaign of putdowns against her partner had to stop. It was bad enough to hear it when she just thought it was something Lassiter had probably been putting up with since he was a kid, but now that she knew he'd had to deal with worse…well, she just wouldn't stand for it, that's all. Shawn would have to find another target for his "male bonding."

Conversation wasn't stilted, but Lincoln kept his mouth shut about personal matters while his brother was looking on. Mostly. He did tell stories of Carlton's high school years, innocuous until he got to the part where he told her that Lassiter had been valedictorian of his graduating class. "And how many valedictorians do you know who have a learning disability?" he said, quite gaily, and Lassiter slapped a hand over Lincoln's mouth a moment too late.

Juliet looked closely at her partner. "You have a learning disability?" she asked.

"It's nothing," he growled, and took a savage bite of sloppy joe.

"Dyslexia," Lincoln volunteered, with a slurp of his strawberry shake.

"Carlton, you're _dyslexic?" _Juliet was astonished. "That's…incredible! It's totally awesome!"

He gave her a look that clearly stated he thought she was crazy. "Dyslexia is awesome?" he inquired.

"No, but valedictorian, 97.4 on the DET, a Masters in criminology, and youngest Head Detective in Santa Barbara history is awesome, and all the more so because you did it all with that kind of hurdle to get over. My God, Carlton. You should give talks at schools."

"That would result in a lot of traumatized children, O'Hara," he said, enunciating carefully. "We don't need that."

"I'm serious, Carlton. Do you realize what kind of _role model _you could be for some poor kid struggling through school with that kind of disadvantage?"

"No, _I'm_ serious, O'Hara. This does _not _get out at the station, do you hear me? If Vick found out about this, she'd _make_ me talk to schools, and There Would Be Trauma. I'm not kidding. I am not someone who should be left unattended around small children."

"The Chief doesn't _know?"_

"_No one _knows. And it's going to stay that way. _Both of you." _He gave his brother a severe glare.

"How can the Chief not know? Isn't there some kind of _record_ of you having dyslexia?" Juliet asked.

"There is a brief notation, somewhere in the midst of the records for my second grade year, that I was diagnosed. That's the last attention _anybody_ at my school paid the diagnosis."

"Then how did you learn to work through it?" Juliet asked. Lincoln was the one to answer, after a deep slurp of his shake.

"Gramma," he said, as if that were all that needed to be said.

"She was a schoolteacher," Lassiter explained. "She made me do book reports, weekly, all summer long, and as often as I could manage through the school year, too. She drilled me harder than a Drill Sergeant. I don't know that her method would work for every dyslexic, but it worked for me. Made me hate reading, but made it possible for me to do it with _relative_ ease."

"What kind of books did you like to report on?" Juliet asked.

"I didn't generally get to choose," Lassiter said. "Gramma picked them out for me. Usually classic literature. She started me reading really _tough_ things really early on, because she said I was smart enough despite how much difficulty I had in reading. Of course, she was a high school teacher, and I don't think she really knew how to plan a lighter curriculum. She also made me read Stephen King, because she was a fan."

"At what age?" Juliet asked, surprised.

"Gosh…I think I was _eight_ when _The Shining _came out - that was the first one she made me read - and then she had me read _Salem's Lot _and _Carrie_ right afterwards, and from then until I started university she made me read every book he published as soon as it came out - after _she_ had finished it, that is."

"Didn't it give you _nightmares?" _Juliet asked, appalled. "I _still _can't read _The Shining _without leaving a light on in my bedroom all night."

Lassiter shrugged, and Lincoln laughed. "CJ doesn't get nightmares. Believe me, I know. We shared a bed."

"I didn't mind having to read Stephen King. I didn't buy all the supernatural bullcrunch but it was still fairly entertaining. I really kind of like _The Dark Tower _series, except for the fact it took way the hell too long for him to finish it. And I liked his short stories, mainly because they were…you know…_short. Short _isn't something Stephen King does very often."

"Okay, so you _kind of _enjoyed reading Stephen King," Juliet said. "What else did you like?"

"_The Call of the Wild." _Lincoln said it, not Lassiter.

"And _White Fang," _Lassiter added.

"You didn't save your copy of _White Fang _when our house burned down," Lincoln said.

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Our house didn't _burn down. _And I saved _Call of the Wild _because it was a special copy, not because I liked it better."

"What was special about it?" Juliet asked, ignoring, for the moment at least, the tantalizing question of how a house could both burn down and _not_ burn down.

Lassiter rubbed a hand against the back of his head, ruffling the short hairs on his neck. "Hank gave it to me," he said at last.

Juliet nodded, then her eyes went wide with sudden understanding. "Oh, you mean Hank from Old Sonora, right?"

"Do _you _know a lot of Hanks, O'Hara? Because I only know the one."

"Have you heard anything from him lately?"

"He and Miss Annie are doing just fine. He bought a horse farm out in the county and they take a lot of vacations. They just got back from Argentina, in fact."

Juliet couldn't help but remember the conclusion of the case that had made her the acquaintance of the old cowboy. Carlton staring down the dusty Western street at the black-hatted villain whose pistol almost certainly held live rounds instead of the blanks it should have held. Her fear, in the moments before they drew, that Carlton would be hurt. Maybe killed. Her indignation that the idiot tourists had the audacity to boo him when he stood victorious.

She remembered the brief exchange between Carlton and Pete Dillingham as the medics worked to stop his bleeding.

"_What made you think you could outdraw me, Dillingham? _Hank_ taught me the quickdraw."_

"_Hank taught me the quickdraw, too." Tight, furious, but laced with his pain._

"_Yeah. But he taught _you_ to _lose."

That exchange hadn't given Juliet much of a sense of relief. Taught to lose or not, Pete Dillingham _did _know how to draw his gun quickly, and certainly hadn't been _trying_ to lose against Carlton. Resolutely, she pushed the memory aside.

"Are you going to tell me how your house didn't burn down?" she asked.

Lassiter reached out and picked up his soda. Before putting the straw to his lips, he rolled his eyes and said a single word, which seemed to Juliet a nonsequitor.

"Squirrels."

"Pardon?"

Lincoln laughed. "Squirrels," he said. "Those dastardly squirrels."

"Squirrels burnt your house down?" Juliet said. In her mind's eye, she pictured a mob of angry torch-waving tree rodents attacking the Lassiter house at dawn.

"Can I tell her?" Lincoln said.

Lassiter sighed. "Go ahead."

Lincoln turned to Juliet. "When CJ here started ninth grade, he moved from our room to the attic. The attic was not a finished space, just a storage area where mom kept old lamps and boxes of books and such, but there was plenty of room for a lanky fifteen year old who wanted his own space for a change. He put rat traps and Decon out for the mice and pretty soon there was no trace of them up there any longer, but every now and then, a _squirrel_ would get in."

"I can't imagine that went over well," Juliet said. "They don't go for Decon or rat traps?"

"Oh, you're thinking of CJ as he is today. At the time, the man had no reason to hate squirrels. He pretty much let them do their thing. They're cute, after all, right?"

Juliet nodded slowly, eyes wide.

"Flash-forward. Senior year. CJ goes on a class trip to Washington D.C. Comes back a week later and finds out a _whole damn family _of squirrels has taken up residence in the attic in his absence. No big deal, right? They're just squirrels. A few months go by, and nobody thinks anything of it. Then the fire."

"How bad was it?" Juliet asked, a little breathlessly.

"Not nearly as bad as it could have been," Lincoln said. "CJ was right, the _house_ didn't burn down, but we lost the roof and most everything that was in the attic, including everything CJ owned, with the exception of the two things he saved - that book and a plastic badge some cop gave him for saving Amy Steinbreck's life."

Juliet raised a finger. "I'm going to want to hear _that_ story next, please."

"CJ will have to tell you himself. I was pretty little when it happened, so I don't remember it so well. Though I could probably give you the basics if he won't, which he probably won't. Anyway, CJ got us all out of the house and called the fire department, and they came and put the fire out, and investigated it, and said that the fire was sparked by electrical wiring in the attic. The insulation had been chewed off. By squirrels."

"So _that's_ why he hates squirrels," Juliet said.

"I don't _hate _them," Lassiter said. "I don't want them anywhere near my _house_. They're quite welcome to live their fuzzy little lives far, far away from me."

"The story has an icky side," Lincoln said. "The fire happened in the middle of the night, when were all sound asleep. When the firefighters saw what was left of CJ's sleeping area in the attic, they told us how he'd managed to save himself. He didn't have a _bed, _you see, just a pile of blankets on the floor. So he was below the smoke, and the heat from the fire woke him up. If he'd been on a bed, he'd have been right in the smoke, and probably would have suffocated before he had much of a chance to wake up. And if he hadn't woken up, the rest of us might never have woken up, either. The house could have burned down and we'd all have smothered to death in our beds."

"God. I never thought of squirrels causing that much damage," Juliet said.

"According to the firefighters, a _lot_ of homes burn down because of squirrels chewing electrical wires," Lincoln said. "People don't think of them as the nuisance mice and rats are, so as long as they don't make a lot of noise in the roof, they tend to leave them be."

Juliet clapped Lassiter on the shoulder. "Well, I've gotta say, partner, it's good to see your thing about squirrels isn't totally irrational. Now if you could just explain what you've got against Olympia Dukakis, I'd be set."

"I _explained_ what I've got against Olympia Dukakis," Lassiter said, tightly.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. May contain spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

**A/N: **This "two chapters in one day" brought to you by "lack of access."

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Everybody Loves Me Baby**

Juliet held out until Saturday night, when she finally broke down and called Lincoln. He was out (at a bar, by the sounds filtering through his cellphone) but quite willing to talk, and he told her a few tales about his brother. Her partner. A man whose life had clearly been far more complicated than she'd ever guessed.

"CJ was born a cop. I don't mean he was born _to be _a cop, I mean he was quite literally A Cop. From Birth," he said at one point, after explaining how he'd watched over them as children. "All he lacked was a badge and a gun, and he got both as soon as humanly possible."

"All right, you got me thinking about it, so I have to ask…how did he mess up his nose?" Juliet asked.

Lincoln laughed. "There wasn't one defining incident, unfortunately, but…CJ was kind of a scrapper."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he got into fights a lot when he was a kid. Picked 'em. With anybody who _bullied_ anybody else. The nuns at our school used to say, 'God hates a bully, and so does CJ Lassiter.' Well, he wasn't a really big kid, and a lot of the schoolyard bullies were, and a lot of them were way older than him, because our school was an all-in-one, Kindergarten through twelfth, and CJ would tear into anybody, no matter how big or how much older they were. He didn't come out the best in a _lot _of these fights."

"I would imagine," Juliet said, shuddering even at the thought.

"So CJ wound up with black eyes and bruises and…as you might imagine…a frequently broken nose. So frequently broken, in fact, that the nuns stopped taking him to the doctor about it. They'd just grab it and twist, so that went back in line."

"_Ouch."_

"Yeah. Well, anyway, after having been 'fixed' like this so many times, we started to notice that CJ's nose was developing a distinct list to port. He could still breathe out of it and it didn't make him snore or anything, so mom figured there was no sense in getting it fixed, if they even could have. I suppose they'd have had to break it again, irony of ironies."

"That's terrible," Juliet said, but she couldn't help laughing just a little. "Well, however it happened, I like Carlton's nose. It has…character."

"Yeah, you could say that, I guess," Lincoln said, with a laugh of his own. "Definitely it sets him apart from the rest of us Lassiter males, who you may be thinking already kind of look _a lot _alike. Not that it helped your boyfriend any, when he first met me."

"What do you mean?"

"He mistook me for CJ. Thought I was undercover as a surf shop owner. Wanted to help me catch _diamond-smuggling surfers, _of all things."

"That's…odd. Shawn's usually so perceptive," Juliet said.

"Well, maybe I took him by surprise, threw him off his game. I notice _you _didn't mistake me for my brother, even from the back."

"Of course I didn't. Carlton doesn't have longish hair. And he'd never go out in public in cargo shorts and flip flops."

"Not even when he was a kid. It was always black slacks and button-down shirts. He'd unbend enough to wear short sleeves, but only once in awhile."

"How did _you_ end up a surfer?" Juliet asked.

Lincoln laughed again. "With great difficulty. Started when I was in…oh, what was it? Tenth grade? Must have been. On an old board I salvaged from a yard sale. Never got any overt sign of approval from mom or from CJ, but they didn't tell me _not_ to do it, which in mom's case I took to be her usual brand of not really caring but from CJ seemed more like tacit approval. Winter after graduation I participated in the Rincon Classic for the first time. Didn't do so good, but for a first-time competitor it wasn't too shabby. When I came in off the waves and got my rankings I looked over to the crowd and there was CJ, in his uniform, with his arms crossed over his chest, scowling at me. He had a moustache back then. Trying to look older and tougher, I think. I thought he must have been working security. Crowd control, you know? But no. He said he was on his lunch break. Came to watch me surf. _Blew my ever-lovin' mind._ He _never_ watched me surf. Said he didn't want to see it the day Jaws ate my stupid Irish ass."

"Ever been bit by a shark?" Juliet asked, teasingly.

"No. I don't think sharks like Irish food."

Juliet giggled. "Well, I should probably let you go," she said, regretfully, because she liked talking with Lincoln. About Carlton.

"Can I ask you one question before you hang up?" he asked.

"Of course."

"It's pretty personal."

"Er…well, you can _ask. _I don't promise to answer."

"What are you doing with that Spencer jackass?"

Juliet sputtered. "Wh-_what?"_

"I mean, you just seem so put-together, and he's such a…_child. _Every day now he bops into my shop, calls me 'Lassy Junior,' and asks me if I've filed a restraining order against my brother yet. Believe me, it took me a long time to grow up, so trust me when I tell you that man is _highly maturity-resistant_. He's not going to suddenly evolve into an adult."

"Well, I…uh…you see…well…" Juliet closed her eyes and changed tack. "You don't like him very much, do you?"

"Oh, he's okay, if kind of a twerp. But really, he kind of reminds me of that old Don McLean song," Lincoln said.

"What old Don McLean song?" Juliet asked, and to her surprise, Lincoln began to sing. Over the cellphone line it was hard to tell what he really sounded like, but he seemed to have a pretty good voice.

"_Yes, and the ocean parts when I walk through, and the clouds dissolve and the sky turns blue, and I'm held in very great value by everyone I meet but you. 'Cause I've used my talents as I could. I've done some bad, I've done some good. I did a whole lot better than they thought I would, so come on and treat me like you should, because everybody loves me, baby. What's the matter with you? Tell me, what did I do to offend you?"_ he sang, and she could hardly imagine a Lassiter, sitting in a public place, belting out a song in front of God and everybody.

"I…I've never heard that song," she said, and why were her eyes burning?

"Don McLean is a Lassiter Family Favorite," Lincoln said. "One of the biggest ways CJ would get us to stay still and stop annoying him was to put on music and make us sing along. It was usually Oldies, but he'd play just about anything. McLean. Aerosmith. Meat Loaf. Kiss. Johnny Cash. _Anything_ to get us to shut up or at least harmonize for half an hour or so."

And then he dropped the bombshell. "You know Shawn a lot better than I do," he said. "If you can honestly tell me that song doesn't remind you of him, then I'll rethink my opinion."

"It…seems kind of familiar," she admitted. "Not that that's _all there is _to Shawn, of course."

"Of course," he said, reasonably. "But it's a damn big part of him, isn't it?"

Tears sprang up in her eyes now. "I…I've got to go."

He dropped another bombshell, even more casually. "CJ loves you, you know. Like, _seriously."_

"Wh-_what?"_

"I mean it. He's in love with you. Come on, you had to have guessed, right? I mean, I saw it not five minutes into our dinner that first night. And I know CJ's a long way from _perfect, _and emotionally he's just a little…or maybe just a lot…_stunted_, but by and large, he's a _man, _not a twelve year old boy. I don't mean to weird you out, or nothing, it's just…you could do worse than consider it. Consider _him."_

"I…I…I really gotta _go."_

"I knew it. You're weirded out. Well, I had to try. I love my brother, Detective, and I'd like to see him happy. He hasn't had much chance at happiness in his life. Will I still see you at dinner tomorrow?"

"I…yeah. Yeah, you will."

"Good. Good night, Detective."

"Good night, Lincoln."

Juliet cut off the conversation with the End button on her cell, and sat on her couch with tears streaming down her cheeks and one hand to her mouth. Carlton…loved her. Some small part of her wasn't surprised. Had known it. But still, to hear it stated baldly…

_I never thought I'd have to confront this head-on, _she thought. _I knew Carlton would never say anything, never make a move. Why did Lincoln have to say it? Why couldn't he keep his "cavernous pie-hole" shut?_

_I love my brother, Detective, and I'd like to see him happy…_

_I would, too. But now…now everything is going to be so complicated. So…weird._

_Why? He didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. And Carlton will still never say anything. I can just pretend this never happened._

_But I don't…but I don't want to._

_Are you crazy?_

_Carlton loves me._

_I reiterate: Are you crazy?_

_Carlton. _Loves_ me. And he's a good man. One of the _best _men. And he loves me._

_But I've got Shawn._

_But Shawn is…Shawn. Narcissistic. Immature. He loves me, but…he doesn't listen to me. He doesn't respect me. And he'll never, never grow up._

_Carlton is damaged goods, girl. _Severely _damaged. You know what happens to women who think they can "heal" a man with damage._

_Carlton would never hurt me. The worst he'd do is tell me to shut it, and then he'd look sheepish when I'd tell him where he can stick his "shut it."_

_Are you sure? There's a lot of violence in Carlton. You heard what Lincoln said. About the fighting._

"He was fighting bullies," she said out loud, and grabbed a Kleenex from the dispenser on the table at her elbow to dab at her eyes and nose. "He was protecting people. A born cop."

_Maybe you're right. But that doesn't change the fact that You Are With Shawn._

_Yeah, but…maybe it's time something did._

_Girl…Shawn _loves_ you._

_As much as a narcissist can love anyone apart from themselves. Which, let's face it, just may not be good enough. In the end, Shawn isn't much different than Frank, and I didn't want Frank back in my life. Shawn pushed that envelope, despite everything I so clearly stated I desired. And okay, sure, he's my Dad, and maybe it's good that we had that moment, but what are the chances I'll ever see him again now? The man can't commit. Neither can Shawn. Do I really want to waste my time on someone like that, someone who doesn't even show me basic respect?_

She thought some more about Frank, about how Shawn had forced him back into her life despite her wishes. She prayed that Shawn never found out about Lassiter's father, because according to his last known address he lived in Summerland, which meant he'd be only too easy for Shawn to track down. She could easily see him trying to "fix" that relationship, all the while his own relationship with his own perfectly decent father lay as a work in progress he didn't show much inclination towards bettering even now after the trauma of Henry getting shot. If Shawn ever tried to force that abusive monster back on Carlton, she'd kill him.

She was getting angry, she realized. Angry over what Shawn _had done _with regards to Frank, and over what he _might do _with regards to Sean Carlton Lassiter. He could never, _ever, _find out about him. Just his name alone would be a source of endless jibes. Juliet could practically hear them, and it pissed her right the hell off. Carlton didn't need to hear what a cool guy his father must be, simply by virtue of _almost_ sharing a name with "the coolest guy on the planet earth," in that guy's own opinion at least. Juliet doubted very much that knowing the elder Lassiter had a record as long as her arm would do anything to dissuade the idiotic comments - it would, in fact, increase them, give him ammunition. Knowing that Carlton had been abused might shut him up, but Juliet knew she could never tell him that. She couldn't betray Carlton that way.

She didn't have to be told that the last person on earth Carlton would want picturing him as a scared, sad little boy was Shawn Spencer.

She couldn't help but picture that little boy. Lincoln had said he was a fighter, from the beginning, and she believed that, but there must have been some part of him…some closed-off, hidden portion of his soul…that was metaphorically curled up weeping in a corner somewhere. And for the first time, she really stopped to consider his relationship with Hank Mendel, glad he'd had that in his life at least. She didn't know how they happened to come together, the cowboy sheriff and the weekend tourist, but she thought now that the slow-talking cowboy had been for Carlton that which he had probably never truly hoped to have: a father that cared.

Juliet went to bed, knowing that she was unlikely to sleep. She lay there in the dark of her peaceful bedroom and punched the pillow beneath her cheek, frustrated, uncertain, confused. She was glad Shawn was still out somewhere with Gus, because she wasn't ready for him tonight. She couldn't help but wonder if she'd ever be ready for him again, and chided herself severely for thinking it. What Carlton felt or did not feel for her didn't change what she had with Shawn.

Dammit.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. May contain spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

* * *

**Chapter Ten: The Perfect Family**

Juliet must have changed her clothes twelve damn times Sunday afternoon.

It was nerves - pure nerves - because she was "meeting the family," despite the fact it was family she'd met before and she wasn't romantically involved. And it was nerves because…because…well, because it would be the first time she encountered Carlton in the wake of Lincoln's confession about his feelings for her.

In the wake of her _forced confrontation _of those feelings.

She hoped Carlton wouldn't see anything off about her that would let him know she knew. She hoped Lincoln wouldn't make any allusions to his confession. She hoped, against all hope, that things wouldn't be _weird._

She finally settled on a lavender knit turtleneck and a plum-colored pencil skirt, a pair of matching pumps, and a light dusting of makeup just slightly more dramatic than her usual workday makeup. She put a strand of pink pearls around her neck, and matching stud earrings in her ears. She pulled her hair back into a softer version of her workday chignon.

She regarded herself in the full-length mirror in her bedroom and wondered if she had time for a total redo.

Just then she heard an engine out front. She glanced out the bedroom window and saw the nose of Carlton's black Ford Fusion. With a brief prayer that was far more than the _Father help me _she articulated in her mind, she grabbed her purse and headed out front, glad that Shawn was totally engrossed in building some kind of bizarre Rube Goldberg device in _Little Big Planet 2 _with Gus on the couch.

"I'll see you later," she called over her shoulder, and received an inarticulate grunt in return.

Carlton was outside, of course, with Lincoln. Both men had stepped out of the car, and looked virtually identical in black slacks, dark blue shirts, and light blue ties. Identical, and…kind of yummy.

_Easy, girl._

Carlton nodded to her, and stepped back around the front of the car to the driver's side. Lincoln held open the passenger side door for her. "Milady," he said, with a cheeky smile that was pure Lassiter, although it didn't make frequent appearances on the face of the Lassiter she was more familiar with. She seated herself demurely in the passenger seat and he closed the door and got in the back.

"Are you all right, riding back there?" she asked.

"I am just fine, milady," Lincoln said. "My only regret is that, with three of us, there's no riding in the 'Vette."

"The 'Vette?" she said, bewildered. "What 'Vette?"

"Oh ho! You didn't know?" Lincoln said, with a hearty guffaw. "CJ, what kind of partner are you, that after eight years your partner doesn't know you have a '66 Corvette Stingray?"

Juliet whipped her head around to stare, goggle-eyed, at Carlton. _"You have a '66 Corvette Stingray?" _she repeated.

Carlton's mouth was set in a grim, white line, but he made no acknowledgement of the question, neither to confirm nor deny.

Juliet's mind brought up a memory. Near the visitor parking spaces in the garage attached to Prospect Gardens were spaces reserved for people who lived in the building and had paid a bit extra for a parking space beyond the two each condo unit was granted in the regular spaces. She'd seen an absolutely stunning midnight blue convertible Stingray with white trimming and upholstery and wondered who owned it. And then she made another connection: the memory of wondering why Carlton invariably parked the Crown Vic in his short spit of a driveway when his previous condo had an attached _two_-car garage.

She continued to stare at him, agape. She remembered when he first bought the Fusion. How proud of it he was, how he'd showed it off to his sister. And yet he owned a classic and rather valuable car about which he'd said absolutely _bubkes_ over the last eight years?

And he hadn't given her a ride in it?

_Asshole!_

"Carlton, speak," she said at last, through gritted teeth.

"Yes, I have a Stingray," he said, quite begrudgingly.

"Where did you get a Stingray? _When _did you get a Stingray? _How_ did you get a Stingray?"

"Graduation present," Lincoln said, and snickered.

"_Graduation present?! _Carlton, I thought you came from a lower-income family."

"We _were_ a lower-income family," he said. "The car didn't come from family. And it wasn't a graduation present. Not…not exactly."

"Carlton, there's a story here, and I _will_ have it," Juliet said.

"All right, O'Hara, all right. The car came from Chief Fenich."

"Chief Fenich? Vick's immediate predecessor?"

"Yes."

"The one who made you Santa Barbara's youngest-ever Head Detective? He…_gave_ you a Stingray?"

"I wasn't Head Detective at the time. I wasn't even a cop. Just a kid. And he wasn't Chief yet, he was Head Detective himself."

Oh yeah, there was a story here. And Juliet meant to hear it all. She had heard, through the grapevine, that the SBPD under Chief John Fenich was seen as something of a "Good Old Boy's Club," and the idea that the Chief gave a valuable car to someone he later promoted to Captain and Head Detective startlingly early smacked of favoritism. Not that she thought Carlton didn't _deserve_ his position, she amended to herself perhaps a trifle too quickly.

He certainly deserved it _now. _The question she was left to consider was, did he deserve it _then?_

She waited a few more moments for him to elaborate before deciding he thought he was finished.

"Carlton. You can't leave it there," she said. "You have to tell me the whole story. If you don't, I'll get it from Lincoln."

Carlton let a huff of air out through his nose. "Lincoln doesn't know the _whole story_, O'Hara. Look, I didn't tell you about the Stingray because the circumstances leading to my possession of it are rather…personal. It's part of the reason I don't drive it much. It engenders…questions. Questions I don't care to answer. Plus, the last thing I need is to ever have to make a claim on my insurance. The premiums on that sucker are astronomical."

"Carlton, I'm your partner - and your friend! Don't you trust me?" Juliet asked.

"Oh look. We're here," Lassiter said, and pulled up in front of a small gray house.

"Fine, put me off. But I will have answers, Carlton Lassiter. You can count on it," Juliet said, huffily. She reached for the door handle.

In the backseat, Lincoln was strangely still.

"What's wrong with you?" Carlton asked him. "Cold feet?"

In response, Lincoln raised a trembling hand and pointed at the yellow '69 convertible Beetle that sat in the driveway of the little house. Lassiter followed his finger and looked back at him with an eyebrow raised in questioning fashion.

"Yes?" he said, slowly, drawing the word into several syllables.

"She's still alive?" Lincoln said.

"You honestly thought she'd be dead?" Lassiter said.

"She's gotta be a hundred and fifteen!"

"She's ninety-two," Lassiter said. "And she still goes dancing at the VFW hall every Saturday night."

"Who are we talking about?" Juliet asked, mystified.

"Gramma," Carlton said, with a glance at her.

"Oh, your Nana's still living? That's wonderful!" she said.

Lincoln stared at her, then shuddered.

"Oh, come on, Lincoln, Gramma's not that bad," Lassiter said. "Not when you take her daughter into consideration."

"Does she still have access to a wooden ruler?" Lincoln asked.

"Cowboy up, Lincoln. This is your family. You wanted to come back to us," Lassiter said.

"I'm starting to remember why I left," Lincoln said.

"It's just one day a week, Lincoln," Lassiter said. "The rest of the week you're free to pretend they don't exist. That's what I do. _Lauren_ manages to pretend they don't exist on Sundays, too."

"Will she be here?" Lincoln asked, sounding somewhat surprised.

"With bells on, fashionably late."

"Whereas _we_ got here early, so you can set the table. As you've always done. Since you were five years old."

"Oh, I was younger than that, I think."

"Don't you ever get tired of being the Good Son?" Lincoln asked.

"Every damn day," Lassiter said, and got out of the car. He came around to the passenger side to help Juliet out, even though she opened her own door. She was surprised. He expected her to get in and out of cars on her own every _other_ day.

"What's with the chivalry, Galahad?" she asked.

"We're not at work," he said. He seemed to feel it was all the explanation required, and perhaps it was.

Lincoln climbed out of the back, unfolding in stages though truthfully the backseat of the hybrid was fairly roomy. He ran a hand through his wavy locks and tugged nervously at his tie. Juliet looked down at his shuffling feet and saw he wore a pair of black Converse sneakers, a far cry from the expensive (because higher quality was only practical) and shiny black leather shoes Lassiter wore. She couldn't help grinning at this purely Lincoln touch to the (mostly borrowed) Sunday best ensemble.

"All right," he said. "Let's…let's do this."

Carlton turned to Juliet, one finger raised. "There will be screaming," he said, warningly. "Lincoln's going to get it with both barrels. I'll divert their attention as best as I can, but I can only do so much. Just. Be prepared. And stick close to Althea."

"Althea will be here?" Juliet asked. She'd met the woman at Lassiter's Painting Party two years ago, but hadn't figured out her relationship to Lassiter's mother.

"Of course she will, and thank all that is good and holy for that."

They went up to the door. Lassiter knocked. In a few moments, a pleasant-faced black woman answered it. She smiled beneficently on them. "Carlton, baby, welcome home. And Juliet…I may call you Juliet, mayn't I? My, how pretty you are! Of course, you were pretty when I saw you last time, covered in paint with your hair up in a rag! Come on in, come on in."

Juliet looked around, and was surprised to find Lincoln nowhere in evidence. She looked back at Carlton, worried, and he shook his head at her and gestured for her to go inside. He himself stayed on the front steps as Althea cooed over Juliet's blouse, her necklace, her hair, her shoes.

"But Carlton, baby, you said you were bringing _two_ guests," Althea said at last. "I only see one."

Carlton looked over at the side of the house, behind which Lincoln had run to hide. "Are you going to man up and come in, or what?"

Lincoln peeked around the siding. He guiltily came out of hiding. Althea saw him. She clasped her hands together over her heart and drew in a huge breath.

"Oh. My. Lincoln? Sweetie, is that really you?"

"Hi, Al," Lincoln said.

"Oh! Come here, baby, give me a hug!" Althea clasped him in a tight embrace. "Oh, this is just wonderful! I can't believe my eyes! Myrna! Myrna, come see!"

Short and heavy-set, like Althea, but with a sharp, suspicious expression creased permanently onto her face beneath her silver hair, Myrna Mary Lassiter came out of the kitchen holding a wooden spoon.

"What?" she demanded.

"Look!" Althea said, and stepped aside so she could see her youngest son.

"Hi, Ma," Lincoln said, with a nervous wave.

Later, Juliet would not be able to identify one word that spilled forth from Myrna's mouth. She thought they were English, at least at first, but she couldn't tell. At some point, she was fairly certain the woman lapsed into Gaelic. Or maybe demonic. Lincoln withstood the tirade with his shoulders hunched defensively. He looked a little windblown. Lassiter stood back and watched her tear into his brother, a shrewd expression on his face, and at a specific point (how he judged that point was unknown to Juliet; there was no difference in the diatribe that she could see) he stepped in between mother and brother and said something calculated to catch her attention. Dazed, Juliet didn't know what it was. But it worked. Myrna turned her ire onto her eldest son without a pause or a breath, and Lincoln, relieved, slunk into the house and dropped heavily onto the end of the sofa.

"Phew," he said.

Juliet came and sat down next to him. "Are you okay?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine," he said. "Just girding myself for round two, when Gramma finds me."

"Once the shock wears off, I'm sure they'll be happy you're home," she said.

Lincoln laughed, quite merrily. "Detective O'Hara. Once the shock wears off, they will proceed to _utterly ignore _me. Mom successfully gave birth four times, but she only has one child, and that child is my brother. They'll feed me, but that's the only acknowledgement they'll give to my existence. Except maybe to yell at me some more."

Juliet was uncomfortable. "Wow. I could…see you…_not liking _your brother much. For that."

"Are you kidding? CJ was the only sanity we had. The eye of the storm. Sure, he got all the _positive _attention, what little there was, but he took all the _negative _attention, too. Mom would still be reamin' me out if CJ hadn't stepped in. He always did that. Put himself between them and us. Really, when you look back on it, CJ was the closest thing to a mother or father we had."

"Wow," she said again. "That's…a lot of pressure to put on a kid."

Lincoln nodded. "I've often wondered how he managed it - how he managed _all_ of it; taking care of us, tiptoeing around Mom and Dad, getting good grades and going out for sports and takin' a part-time job. I used to think he was…freakin' _omnipotent. _I'm still not entirely sure he's not. It was always like there were two or three of him. Of course, he slept maybe two, three hours a _week."_

"Yikes. He never got…stressed out?" Juliet asked. She couldn't imagine it. The Carlton _she_ knew had a fairly low threshold for annoyance.

"Oh yeah, he did. Hence the Stingray," Lincoln said.

"I don't follow."

"CJ was right, I don't know the whole story. But it _starts_…with CJ playing hooky from school."

Carlton playing hooky from _any_ responsibility seemed utterly out of character. She sat back on the sofa and looked at him. Myrna finished haranguing him and returned with Althea to the kitchen. Carlton lowered himself almost gingerly into an overstuffed armchair. A small, decrepit dog, which might once have been a Puggle but now looked like Yoda's older stepbrother, waddled into the living room. It utterly ignored everyone in the room for the first few moments, casting rheumy eyes around as if it didn't see them, and then it turned toward Carlton and began growling and barking. Carlton sighed and rolled his eyes.

"The _dog_…is _still_…_alive?" _Lincoln said.

"Fritzy will _never _die," Carlton said, head in hand.

Myrna wandered out of the kitchen again, still holding that wooden spoon. She addressed her eldest son.

"Have you got time today to look at the roof?" she asked. "I think that last storm did a number on it."

"Ma, I told you, call an insurance adjustor. Your homeowner's insurance covers this."

"I want _you_ to look and see if it's worth calling one," she said obstinately.

"I don't know roofs, Ma," Lassiter said, wearily.

"What do you have to know? Just go up there and see if there's damage."

"All right. All right. I will go up on the roof and see if there's damage."

Myrna came more fully into the living room and sat down in the other armchair. "Anything big happening at work?" she asked.

"Nope," Lassiter said. "Why don't you ask Lincoln for a story? He's been all over the world, Ma."

Lincoln sat forward. "I went to Ireland, Ma. Connemara. South on to Cork. I kissed the Blarney Stone."

Myrna regarded him for the half of a moment, silently, then turned back to Carlton. "Is that idiot psychic still giving you fits?"

"In fits and starts," Lassiter said, with a deep, heartfelt sigh. Myrna returned to the kitchen and Lincoln stood up. To Juliet's surprise and, after a moment, delight, he dropped to his knees and sang.

"_Cellophane, Mr. Cellophane shoulda been my name, Mr. Cellophane, 'cause you can look right through me, walk right by me, and never know I'm there!"_

He really did have a very good voice. Juliet applauded as he stood up and took a bow, doffing an imaginary hat. "That was amazing, Lincoln! Carlton, can _you_ sing?" she asked. "I mean, I've heard you half-ass 'Happy Birthday,' but…"

"No," Lassiter said, at the exact same moment that Lincoln said, "Yes."

"No," Lassiter said again.

"Yes," Lincoln said, quite firmly. "He _won't, _but he _can."_

A car pulled up outside, and after a moment there was a knock on the door. Carlton stood up and crossed over to open it. A short, heavy-set woman with grey hair and dark brown eyes stood there, and immediately hugged him.

"Aunt Carolyn," Lassiter said. "Come on in."

Lincoln stood up. "Hi, Auntie. Remember me?"

"Lincoln! By God, boy, it's been years! I didn't know if you were alive or dead!" The woman gave Lincoln a hug and then held him at arm's length, assessing him. "You need a haircut."

"That's what CJ says. He called me a hippie."

"Aunt Carolyn, I'd like to introduce you to Juliet O'Hara, my partner on the force," Carlton said, presenting Juliet, who stood for her introduction. "Juliet, this is Carolyn Quinn, my mother's sister. She was with the Ventura PD until she retired."

Carolyn shook Juliet's hand. "I'm sorry," Juliet said. "You're a…or you _were _a…police officer. When I spoke to your sister on the telephone years ago, it seemed like she didn't believe women could _be _police officers."

"She _doesn't _believe women can be police officers," Carolyn said dryly. "Never has believed, never will. But there's no reason her ignorance should hinder the rest of us, right? Glad to see a little more estrogen in uniform, even though I know you're plainclothes, like Carlton."

They all sat down again, Carolyn in the armchair next to Carlton. For the first time, Juliet felt comfortable enough to look around at the décor of the room. There wasn't much. Two portraits hung on the otherwise bare walls, one over the sofa behind her, next to the door leading to the kitchen and the rest of the house, and the other next to the front door. She looked at the one behind her curiously for a long moment.

"That's Mom and Dad," Carolyn said. _"My _mom and dad," she said. "Taken just a little bit before Daddy passed on, when Carlton was…oh, what were you? Nine? If you haven't met mother yet, and if you haven't stepped foot in the kitchen then you probably haven't - she never leaves a stove untended - you won't find her too much changed from the way she looks in that photo. Except she won't be smiling, you can bet your bottom dollar on that. Daddy, on the other hand…_he_ used to smile. All the time."

The woman in the photograph looked about sixty, with dark hair pulled up into a bun as severe as the rest of her looked. The man beside her was almost ageless, with crinkly blue eyes and laugh lines and silver-white hair the only indicators that he was at all past his prime. His wide smile was not the cheeky Lassiter smile Juliet knew, but it was an ineffably _Irish_ smile nevertheless. He looked…friendly. Comfortable. A stark contrast to his wife.

Juliet turned back around to look at the other portrait, the one by the door. This was a larger family grouping, and she recognized with a chill up her spine the face of Sean Carlton Lassiter, family patriarch. The face was younger, less dissolute than the most recent mug shot she'd seen of him, but there was no mistaking him. Or the fact that he had his hand on the shoulder of his oldest son, who did not look like he wanted to be there, standing next to him in his Sunday best. There was a dark-haired woman Juliet recognized to be Myrna, and a dark-haired girl she took to be Geena, the sister who now lived in New Jersey, and on Myrna's lap, an adorable little grinning boy (with that cheeky, Lassiter grin) that had to be Lincoln. Lauren was not pictured, and judging by Lincoln's evident age (perhaps four or five) she was not yet born. Juliet looked at this picture of the idealized family (all idealized except for Carlton, whose thin, uncomfortable smile seemed to indicate he knew they were all lying) and couldn't help feeling horrified.

"Ma will never take that damn picture down," Carlton said, breaking into her thoughts with soft-spoken words that had the effect of a sledgehammer on her psyche. "Never mind Dad didn't stay with us. Never mind that one of her children isn't even pictured. The lie is all that matters. The _perfect family."_

"Oh Carlton," she said, in a breathy voice. Her chest felt constricted. She couldn't think of anything else to say, so she said it again. "Oh, Carlton."

* * *

**A/N: **The portraits (which were mentioned in my other ongoing, "The Rear View Mirror," as well) are actually hanging in my house, though they're slightly different than described. My grandma, in the first portrait, did not look (or act) half so severe as her bun, and my grandpa (a smiling Irishman) was not quite as nice as he looked (although he was to me, but then, he died when I was two, so I didn't get to know him all that well). There is one extra child in the family portrait, my older brother Tim, my oldest brother _Travis_ only looks uncomfortable because he's autistic and always looks uncomfortable, my sister is blonde (we're all blond, actually, even dad, who was full-blooded Italian, and except for mom, who is nearly full-blooded Irish and has extremely dark auburn hair, and we all have blue eyes, even dad - he was a "sport," in the biological sense). The child grinning on mom's lap is not a four year old boy but a two year old girl (me) and I _was_ grinning and clapping because the photographer had a Kermit the Frog puppet (I remember this distinctly). My father was…a _hard_ man, but nothing like Sean Carlton Lassiter. And he never left us. He died last year, but he never left us.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. May contain spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Aperitif**

Carlton got up and went into the kitchen to set the table. The three women bustling about the stove - his mother, his grandmother, and Althea - ignored his presence as he got out plates, silverware, napkins, and water glasses. The familiar ritual of setting out places settled him, a bit. He'd gotten more than a trifle flustered when Juliet shot him that dark blue pitying gaze when she looked at the family portrait on the wall. Lincoln had a big mouth, he knew that much. What had he told her? How much did she know…or guess?

Somebody knocked at the door. Lauren, early for a change. Lassiter moved towards the living room but Althea flapped a hand at him.

"I'll get it. You just go on about your business, baby."

Althea bustled out of the kitchen to the door, which she opened with hearty words of welcome. Lassiter couldn't hear what response she got, but there was an interesting response in the living room. A gasp. From Juliet.

And then words. Hissed through teeth.

"Shawn, what are you _doing_ here?"

Lassiter dropped a plate, which clattered to the tabletop and caused his grandmother to turn from the stove and berate him for clumsiness. Over her voice, he couldn't hear what was going on in the living room. He closed his eyes against the pounding headache that had started up at his left temple.

Gramma turned back to the stew and Althea came back into the kitchen, smiling like the angel that she was. "Carlton, baby, we're going to need the extra leaf, and two more chairs and place settings."

"You let them _in?" _he asked, though truthfully he wasn't surprised.

"Well, of _course_ I did, they're your _friends, _and it's not like there's not plenty of food," she said.

"Not for those two, there's not. And they're not my friends. And they just _invite_ themselves to dinner, and everybody's…_okay_…with that?"

She smacked his arm lightly. "Come on, now, Mr. Grumpy Gus. Have Lincoln help you with the leaf and chairs - they're in the cubbyhole, you know that - and we'll have a nice dinner, all of us together, friends and family. It'll be _wonderful."_

"Al. After so many years with my mother, how can you say that with a straight face?"

"Oh, go on, now."

He entered the living room, shot a dark glare at Shawn and Gus, still hovering by the front door, and gestured to Lincoln. "I need some help," he said.

Lincoln got up. "Excuse me," he said. "Duty calls."

They went back to the kitchen and Lincoln helped Lassiter slide the table apart further - there were already three leaves in it - and put in the last remaining leaf from the cubby closet. Lassiter grabbed two folding chairs and set them up at the table, then put out extra table settings. He felt remarkably calm, all things considered, despite the fact that he'd left his service weapon at home for a change, knowing that Juliet would take him to task for it if he wore it.

He could still kill them, if killing was required. He could probably make it look like an accident, too.

He didn't really have to think about it to know why they'd shown up. For Spencer, it was another chance to needle. To poke and pry and learn things he didn't need to know. It was also, in Lassiter's opinion, one more way for him to exert an unhealthy control over Juliet and her life. For Guster, it would be more innocent - but just barely. He most likely came because Spencer had told him Lauren would be here, and he'd shown an interest in Lauren previously. In the wake of his breakup with Rachel, perhaps he was over feeling weirded out by the fact she was Lassiter's sister.

He thought about it, and had to admit to himself that Lauren could do worse. Guster was a responsible adult, when not influenced by Spencer, with a good if staid career (and now that he worked at a decent pharmaceuticals company, he had a decent company car), was respectful of others (again, when not influenced by Spencer), and was fiscally responsible (or at least, as fiscally responsible as he could be considering Spencer stole his credit card every few days). Yes, Lauren could do worse. She could date _Spencer._

Not. In. A. Million. Years.

So. He wouldn't break out the hollow point ammunition if Guster put the moves on Lauren, despite how unflatteringly vicious he got when Lassiter showed a perfectly innocent interest in _his_ sister. He might slap him around a little, just to be absolutely certain he knew who he was dealing with.

"You did leave your gun at home, right, bro?" Lincoln whispered to him as they finished setting up the table.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Just making sure. Cleaning up after dinner will be so much less complicated if there are no bodies to move."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't kill 'em."

"Hey, I'm not saying you shouldn't. And I'm _definitely_ not saying I wouldn't help you move the bodies."

Lassiter took a good hard look at his brother. "I'd have figured you for one of Spencer's fans," he said at last.

"Hey, I won't deny it. Me and that guy have a lot in common. But maybe that's why I can see him for what he is. A complete and utter _ass hat._ Honestly, Detective O'Hara puts up with him? Does the woman have _no _self-respect?"

"Hey, that's my partner you're talking about," Lassiter said, severely, but he couldn't help but think he'd wondered what had become of Juliet's self-respect, too, over the last couple of years.

And she'd been with Spencer longer than anybody else she'd dated since moving to Santa Barbara. God help him, she seemed set on creating some kind of _life _with him. It was bad enough they were living together. If she popped out a couple of Spencer babies Lassiter might have to shoot himself in the head just to escape this crazy world.

Table set, they returned to the living room. Spencer and Guster had repaired to the couch, one on either side of Juliet. This left one chair remaining to sit in. Both men stood in the doorway and neither made a move toward it.

"Go sit down," Lassiter said to Lincoln at last.

"_You _sit down," Lincoln said.

"Just sit," Lassiter said.

"Age before beauty," Lincoln shot back.

"And which of _us _has beauty?" Lassiter said.

Lincoln ran a hand through his flowing locks. "That should be obvious."

"Just freakin' _sit_ before I snap your pencil neck."

Lincoln jumped to seat himself. Lassiter leaned in the kitchen doorway with his arms folded across his chest and a dark, forbidding glare directed at Spencer.

Juliet got up, smoothed her skirt, and came to stand next to him.

"Carlton, I am so sorry about this," she said, in a low voice. "I can't _believe_ he did this."

"Really? You can't believe he behaved in a way consistent with the way he's behaved over the last eight years?"

"Inviting himself to dinner is really crossing a line," Juliet said.

"He crosses lines regularly."

She ignored the comment. "I hope this doesn't make things uncomfortable, Carlton."

"Actually, I'm quite looking forward to seeing what my mother and grandmother think of Spencer."

She sighed and shook her head. "This is going to be ugly, isn't it?"

"O'Hara, it was _always_ going to be ugly. Now it's just going to be ugly with _purpose."_

Shawn held out an arm. "Jules. Baby. Darling. Come, sit by me."

"Shawn, I am so _mad _at you right now," Juliet said, but she went and sat beside him all the same.

The smells wafting out of the kitchen clearly had both men salivating. Lassiter could admit to feeling a bit of anticipation himself - whatever _else_ these Sunday dinners were, they were gustatory delights. Whatever else his mother and grandmother were, they were good cooks. Althea was pretty damned good, too. Three cooks was a lot to put in one kitchen, particularly when two of those cooks were Quinn women, but the results were always satisfactory.

Spencer looked at Aunt Carolyn. "We haven't been properly introduced," he said, rather grandly. "I'm Shawn Spencer, psychic extraordinaire, and this is my partner, Chocolate Banana Bomb Pop. I solve cases for Lassy, with the help of my partner's magic head. And you are?"

The woman gave him a wilting look. "Carolyn Quinn, Ventura PD, retired. I'm _Carlton's_ aunt."

"Look at that, Gus, there _is_ another badge in the family. And Lincoln and Lassy told Woody that law enforcement didn't run in the family genes. Lassy, did you grow up wanting to follow in your _auntie's_ footsteps?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes and said nothing. There was nothing he could say the man wouldn't snark at. Frankly, there were far worse footsteps he could have followed in.

"Do you have something against cops, or just against my family?" Lincoln said, surprising him. He actually sounded…kind of mad. Which made no sense, because Lincoln never got mad about anything. He had Grandpa's easy-going, laughing personality.

Spencer spread his hands. "I've got nothing against anyone, Lassy Junior."

"Ermmm, you kinda do, Shawn. At least, something against Lassiter," Gus said.

"Gus, I can't do this with you right now."

Lincoln jumped out of his chair and crossed the room, his stance markedly belligerent. "If you've got a problem with my brother, you've got a problem with me. Come on, hot shot, bring it on."

Lassiter found himself in the strange position of having to come between his brother and Spencer. "Woah woah woah. Let's not de-evolve, okay? Lincoln, sit down."

"Yeah, man, chill. There's nothing to get all in a tizzy over," Shawn said.

"You do spend a lot of time insulting the man's brother, Shawn," Gus said, helpfully. "He can't have helped but notice."

"Shawn, just shut up already," Juliet said.

Lincoln sat down, with a glare for Spencer, and Lassiter returned to the kitchen doorway, keeping a wary eye on both of them. He was worried about his brother, honestly. It wasn't like him to get upset or to pick a fight.

That was _his_ job.

There was a knock at the door. Lassiter hoped it was Lauren, and not Henry, or Buzz, or Chief Vick, though truthfully any one of those three would be far more welcome than Spencer and Guster and would never invite themselves over in the first place. He crossed the room and opened the door. Lauren gave him a hug before he barely had time register her standing there.

"Hey, big brother," she said against his shirtfront.

Behind him, Lassiter was aware that Gus had shot to his feet, obviously intending to offer Lauren his seat on the couch. But as Lassiter stepped back and Lauren stepped in, she didn't notice. Her eyes were fixed on Lincoln, who had also risen to his feet.

He held out his arms. "Baby sister," he said.

"Link! Good God! Where have you been?" She hugged him fiercely.

"Oh, here and there. How ya been, sis?"

"Ah! 'Here and there?' Link, it's been _fifteen years."_

"I know, I know. We've got a lot of catching up to do. I, ah, I know I missed your birthday, last Sunday, and I'm sorry. I can't make up for that, or all the other birthdays I missed, but…well…happy birthday, Lu."

He took a small velvet-covered box out of his pocket and gave it to her. She opened it to reveal a shining golden Claddagh ring, with the hands enfolding a heart-cut peridot beneath the golden crown - her birthstone.

"It's a genuine Claddagh, direct from Ireland," Lincoln said. "I got one with an amethyst, too, for Geena, if I ever get out that way to give it to her. I hope you like it."

"It's beautiful, Link, thank you," Lauren said, and slipped the ring onto her finger. She gave her brother another hug. Lassiter was glad they had a happy reunion. Being closest to each other in age, she and Lincoln had always been particularly close. His absence had been hard on Lauren.

Of course, Lassiter and Geena were even _closer_ in age - less than a year separating their birthdays of February 16th for Geena and February 22nd for him - and yet they'd never been particularly close. He and Geena got along in telephone conversations and occasional visits, these days, but as children they'd never been friends. Perhaps they were simply _too _close in age. Geena had always rather resented him his role of the "big brother."

And maybe he'd played it a little too thick with her. He could admit that, now. They were close enough in age that he could have treated her more as an equal than a little sibling, even though she had seemed to him relentlessly naïve about the world. Maybe he should tell her this, next time he talked to her.

Yeah, right.

Lauren sat down on the couch next to Juliet, with a smile and a nod for Gus, who said "Hello" in that way he thought made him sound like a player, and Lincoln sat back down in his armchair. Gus came to lean against the opposite side of the kitchen door from Lassiter. Lauren looked around the room at everybody there.

"Wow, quite a gathering this week. Is this all just because Lincoln's home?"

"I was invited. These two idiots crashed," Juliet said.

Lauren looked at Shawn and then at Gus. "Wow. You guys like to live dangerously, huh?"

"No, we knew Jules would make Lassy leave his gun at home," Shawn said.

Lauren laughed. "That's not what I meant. You haven't been introduced to Ma and Gramma yet, have you?"

Shawn laughed. "You say that like they're wild animals, or something."

"Oh, they'd be _much_ better behaved if they were wild animals," Carolyn said.

Shawn laughed again, but there was less genuine humor in the sound. "They're just…pleasant…old ladies, right? How dangerous could they be?"

Lassiter looked at Carolyn, who looked back at him. Lauren looked at Lincoln, who looked back at her. All four of them smiled a particular thin smile that made them all look very much like family even where the resemblance wasn't close.

"I notice you haven't asked me to 'keep them off him,' Carlton," Carolyn said.

"Oh, I'm looking forward to this, Aunt Carolyn."

"I've seen him on the news several times. I can imagine how you feel."

"We can protect Guster - a little. He deserves a _small_ helping," Lassiter said, with a nod in Gus's direction.

"Are you sure about that? He certainly strikes _me_ as equally complicit."

"Coercion, to a certain degree. He has all the spine of a jellyfish."

"In other words, he'd collapse under their full wrath."

"Into a blubbering pile of goo that would probably put me off _my_ feed, at the least."

"Uh, should I be worried?" Gus asked.

"Leave it for Spencer, if he has the sense," Lassiter said.

Juliet, apparently eager to turn to safer subjects, turned to speak to Lauren. "It was your birthday last week? Happy birthday."

"Thank you. It was kind of nice, it falling on a Sunday this year, and it being Labor Day weekend and all. Didn't do anything special, just had the usual dinner here, but it was nice anyway. Carlton gave me this necklace," Lauren said, and pulled from the neck of her olive green blouse a sparkling silver Maltese cross covered with what Juliet had to guess were exceptionally good fake diamonds, closely matching in color and quality the (fake?) diamond pavé ring she wore on the ring finger of her left hand, which now bore the Claddagh on the index finger. "My big brothers know I'm such a _girl _about sparkly things."

"That's beautiful, Lauren," Juliet said.

Althea came to the kitchen doorway and gestured to everyone. "Come on in the kitchen, folks, and get sat down. Soup's on."

Spencer shot to his feet and bounced a couple of times. "We're having soup? 'Cause I kind of thought I smelled fried chicken."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "It's an expression, Spencer," he said.

"We've got fried chicken, beef stew, roasted sweet corn, mashed potatoes and gravy, cornbread, steamed veggies, potato salad, green bean casserole, and a nice triple chocolate crème cake for dessert," Althea said, and Shawn and Gus's faces split in identical blissful smiles.

"Dear Lord, I think I've died and gone to heaven," Spencer said.

Althea giggled. "Come Sundays, we put the _feed bag _on, baby," she said. "Makes up for the fact that we don't do much cookin' the rest of the week."

They filed in to the kitchen behind Althea. Mother and grandmother were still standing near the stove, in identical cross-armed postures, their faces set in scowls that called to mind Lassiter himself on a bad day. Heedless of danger, Shawn immediately went to them and introduced himself.

"Mrs. Lassiter, and Gramma…Quinn, I take it? So nice to meet you. I'm Shawn Spencer." He reached out, apparently intending to take Lassiter's mother's hand and perhaps kiss it (it was the kind of grandiose gesture to which he was prone) but she put a quick end to that.

"Booker, get this sex fiend away from me!" she shouted in her three-pack-a-day voice. Shawn blinked in surprise and Lassiter smoothly stepped in between them.

"Spencer, move along. No looky, no touchy."

Shawn looked at him curiously as he was shooed towards the table. "Booker?" he asked. "Not…_Binky?"_

"Hank Mendel is the only person who has ever called me Binky," Lassiter said. "Hank Mendel is the only person who _will…_ever…call me Binky."

Lassiter moved Shawn and Gus to seats on the uncomfortable folding chairs (he felt no urge to take one for himself when they were uninvited guests) as Lincoln went to stand before their grandmother, shoulders slightly hunched in the same defensive posture he'd adopted in front of their mother.

"Hey, Gram. Long time, no see," he said, meekly.

She glared at him for a moment, and then commenced to waling on him, both verbally and physically. Ninety-two years old, and less than five feet tall, the verbal assault was far more effective than the physical assault, and Lassiter let her blow off a head of steam before interjecting and saving his brother from her attentions. When he finally did step in she gave him a few whacks about the arms and shoulders before she settled down. Lassiter returned to seating everybody at the table as if nothing whatsoever had happened.

He put Juliet next to Spencer, because otherwise there would probably be hell to pay, and after a moment's cogitation, he put Lauren next to Gus. If something was going to happen there it was going to happen whether he liked it or not, probably all the quicker if anyone voiced objection to it. Lauren definitely inherited that stubborn streak so strong throughout the rest of the family. He put Lincoln between Juliet and Aunt Carolyn, where he'd be more or less safe, and sat himself between Gramma and Mother, which he really didn't deserve but which he knew he could take. This put Gramma next to Gus, and Mother next to Spencer, and they did deserve that. Althea sat between Lauren and Aunt Carolyn, because Lassiter liked to give the poor woman a slight break from his mother on Sundays, despite the fact that she seemed cheerfully oblivious to her lady love's abrasive personality.

"All right, everybody bow your heads for the Big Lie," Lassiter said, and Gramma cuffed him upside the head.

"Dude, have you ever seen so many blue-eyed people in one place before?" Shawn whispered to Gus as everybody clasped hands and bowed their heads. "Aunt Carolyn is kind of an oddball."

"Quiet, Shawn, we're about to say grace," Gus whispered back.

"Heavenly Father," Gramma intoned, "bless this meal and those of us gathered here, _even those who were not invited, _and bless those absent from our table. Bless the lost lamb returned now to the fold -" Here Lincoln couldn't help but snort "- and the lamb still gone from our pastures. Grant us the strength and courage to grow in Your Grace through all the days of our lives."

"Amen," their voices chorused, and Mother and Althea got up to start dishing up food.

"Shawn. Wait for everybody else to start eating," Juliet said, with a light smack on Spencer's hand, as he picked up the thigh he was given and stuffed it in his mouth. "You wait for the hostess to sit down and start to eat, first."

"Oh come on, Jules, this is _Lassy's_ family, they don't use Emily…Post…" Shawn trailed off as he looked around and saw no one else had yet started eating and were, in fact, glaring at him.

"If you're through making the assumption that my family knows nothing about good manners, Spencer, I'll thank you to be quiet. And thank you, by the way, for taking the time and effort to dress in your Sunday best," Lassiter said, sarcastically, as Shawn wore the same rumpled blue shirt and ratty jeans he wore every other day. Gus preened and passed a hand down his immaculate shirtfront.

"_You _could have put on a tie, Gus," Juliet said, which surprised Gus and Lassiter as well. "Frankly, you both humiliate me."

"Jules. Baby," Shawn said, plaintively.

"Don't 'Jules baby' me," she said. "You shouldn't be here, Shawn. Period."

"_Booker _always did drag home strays," Mother said, with a sneer.

Lassiter sighed. _"I _wouldn't have let them past the door. And it was one time, Ma. One time, I brought Kenny Marshall over to Sunday dinner."

"I don't think I remember Kenny Marshall," Lauren said.

"You wouldn't, Lu," Lassiter said. "You weren't even born yet."

"Yeah. He _died_ when you were, what, three?" Lincoln said, and Lassiter shushed him harshly.

"We don't need to talk about that at the dinner table, Lincoln," he said.

"Who was Kenny Marshall?" Juliet asked.

"Neighbor kid, lived across the street. He and CJ were best buddies, practically from birth," Lincoln said, when it was clear Lassiter did not intend to answer.

"Enough, Lincoln," Lassiter said, unwilling to dredge up old memories.

Juliet looked down the table at him. In her dark blue eyes reflected dismay and pity. The thought in her head was, _Oh Carlton, you lost your Gus._

* * *

**A/N:** These Lassiter Family Sunday Dinners were inspired by Sunday dinner at great-grandma's house. Great-Gramma Prima was from northern Italy, and immigrated to America in the early nineteen hundreds to escape Fascism (and the Catholic church, to a lesser extent). Great-Grampa Emilio was also an immigrant from northern Italy. He came here with a cousin at age fifteen and the other cousin who was meant to meet them at Ellis Island never showed up, so the first cousin turned around and got back on the ship back to Italy. Great-Grampa got a job with the railroad and worked his way across the country, finally coming back to settle in Iowa and purchase a small farm. They raised seven kids, lost one more, and then raised their oldest grandchildren, my father and Uncle Steve. Great-Grampa worked the farm until he was ninety-six, when a fall caused head trauma that left him with mild dementia for the remaining four years of his life. Great-Gramma held Sunday dinner at her house up until her own death at age 102. Unlike the Lassiter household, she cooked all week long, too, but Sundays were something else entirely. There were likely to be five main entrees, with at least one pasta dish that was made-from-scratch right down to the noodles, which she hand-rolled. There was usually chicken, which of course she killed herself. Being very close to what you'd call a "Change of life" baby, I didn't get to enjoy very many years of these family get-togethers, but I remember them vividly. _Nobody_ cooked like Great-Gramma. As to Lauren's birthday having been last Sunday (and Geena's birthday being the 16th of February), the fact of the matter is that if Lassiter's birthday is indeed February 22nd 1969, then he shares his birthday with my big brother Tim. And since there are four of us in my family, I decided that we'd all share birthdays with Lassiter siblings. Which means Lincoln's birthday is March 20th and Lauren's is August 31st. The years are different, with both Lincoln and Lauren being one year younger than my sister and myself, and Geena being two years younger than my big brother Travis. And this story and the backstory just keep getting more and more autobiographical, don't they? It really was never intended to be. And I got _Psych Season Seven _for my birthday last week, along with a very sparkly (but not Claddagh) ring.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. May contain spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

**A/N: **Some very ugly bigotry in this chapter. Ye be warned. Other than that, I had fun with this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: Dinner With the Whole Fam Damnily**

The silence that befell the table was uncomfortable for those who, unlike mother or grandmother, did not utterly ignore it. Juliet looked from Carlton down to her plate and wished to unhear Lincoln's words, or at least to be better at schooling her expression, because the pity in her look had caused a flash of anger to cross Carlton's features. The last thing he wanted was pity.

And oh, Shawn…why could you not, once, grasp the nuances of a delicate situation?

"So, Lassy - the best friend bit the big one, eh? What happened? You didn't kill him, did you?"

"Shawn, shut your mouth," Juliet said.

"Car crash," Lassiter said, biting the words off aggressively. "You know, you should take a lesson from me, Spencer. You should appreciate Guster more, treat him a little better."

"You know that's right," Gus muttered.

"You never know when you might lose him," Lassiter finished. "Same goes for O'Hara."

"Mrs. Marshall still lives across the street," Lauren said.

"She does?" Lincoln said. "That kind of surprises me. Maybe it shouldn't. Her life kind of ground to a halt after Kenny died. She and her husband got divorced soon thereafter."

"Carlton talks to her just about every Sunday, for a few minutes," Lauren said. "It seems to comfort her a little. Maybe she sees the man Kenny would have been in him."

"So. Lauren. Make any good movies lately?" Lassiter asked, too brightly.

She laughed. "Yeah, okay, okay. I know you hate to talk about 'personal matters.'"

"In front of the present company, I don't even care to speak of _impersonal_ matters," Lassiter said.

"I hear that," Lincoln said. "Sorry, bro. It's easy for the lips to flap before the brain can think better of it."

Juliet was stung to think Carlton might lump her in to the "present company," but she knew it was mostly Shawn he was concerned about, and rightfully so. Still, she had eight years' experience in knowing he was little more open with her than with anyone else, so perhaps she _was_ part of the "present company."

She chanced a glance at Shawn, who was sitting remarkably still and quiet even as everyone else began to eat. His face was twisted into an unflattering expression of intense contemplation that Lord help her, reminded her very much of the face a baby makes just before it poops. She nudged his arm.

"Shawn."

He picked up his chicken and stuffed it in his mouth slowly and thoughtfully, and that twisted-up expression did not falter. Juliet turned back to her own plate and tried very hard not to break into laughter.

No one spoke, as the meal started, and after a few moments Juliet realized there was nothing tense about the silence, except perhaps for Shawn's. It wasn't what she had expected, from Carlton's warnings. People were just…eating. With great enjoyment. The food was certainly good. She relaxed a little.

Silence was not a natural condition for Shawn and Gus, but since Shawn was still deeply engaged in figuring something out, it was left to Gus to breech the barrier of conversation. He turned to Lauren and asked her when she graduated from film school. They had a quiet conversation between the two of them that no one attempted to enter into, nor did their exclusion of everyone else seem to bother anybody. Eventually their words grew slightly flirtatious, and no one batted an eyelash. Not until Gus's voice dropped half an octave and he asked if Lauren had any plans for the following Friday night.

Lauren laughed, a bit coquettishly. "I don't usually make plans this far in advance, but I'd be willing to make an exception for you, Gus."

Myrna Lassiter put down her water glass with a hard crack. "Lauren. You cannot go out with that boy," she said.

Lauren, who had yet to acknowledge her mother in any way, looked down to the other end of the table. "Althea, did you hear something? I thought I heard something."

"You know you heard me, little girl," Myrna said. "You cannot go out with that boy."

"Why ever not, Myrna?" Althea asked, since she knew full well Lauren wouldn't.

"Because he's black," Myrna said.

The reaction was instant. Gus looked, predictably, both affronted and flummoxed. Lauren's jaw dropped to the tabletop. Carlton, Lincoln, and Aunt Carolyn each slapped a hand to their faces in identical expressions of _ohmygod_, Shawn dropped his chicken and turned a quizzical look on the woman sitting to his right, and Althea burst into hearty laughter. Gramma Quinn simply ate on, not remotely bothered. Juliet honestly didn't know what to feel. It didn't surprise her overmuch to learn Myrna Lassiter was bigoted, but the presence of Althea in the household, which she'd yet to fully understand, made it confusing.

"I am so glad _you_ find this funny, Al," Carlton said, from behind the hand that was still clapped to his face.

"Oh sweetie, I know your Mama," Althea said, still laughing.

"Yes. And yet, you still live with her. Which makes no sense to any of us, Al, at all."

"Seriously, Al. How do you put up with it?" Lincoln asked. "I'd call it the Quinn mouth, but that's not fair to Grampa or Aunt Carolyn. I figure it must come from Gramma's side of the family, the McLaughlins."

"It's just something ugly that you can't do anything about, like a wart," Althea said. "She can't help it."

"She _can, _Al. She could keep her mouth _shut," _Carlton said. He sighed heavily. "Oh, who am I kidding? I've got a case of the McLaughlin mouth myself."

"Nowhere near as bad, bro. Nowhere near as bad," Lincoln said.

"I'm sorry, I've just got to say it," Gus said. "How can a woman who has a _black lesbian lover _have a problem with black people?"

Juliet gasped, and looked from Althea to Myrna disbelievingly. It couldn't be. Of all the odd couples, and their shared gender and racial differences were the least of it.

Carlton sighed. "There are many words to describe my mother, Guster. The most apt might well be 'hypocrite.' She's not all that keen on homosexuals, either."

"Filthy perverts," Myrna said.

"She doesn't even see how ridiculous she is. She has always lived by the 'Do as I say, not as I do' credo," Carlton said. "Lulu, you go out with whomever you damn well want to. Guster's a good fellow." He turned to look directly at Gus, with a baleful light in his blue, blue eyes. "I _trust_ he will Treat You Well. Or he'll answer to _me."_

Gus swallowed, and looked like he might be seriously reconsidering asking Lauren out.

Lincoln looked at Juliet and smiled slightly. "CJ can put the smackdown on Ma," he said. "He doesn't always get away with it, but usually. None of the rest of us would dare even try. He just called her 'ridiculous,' not to mention 'hypocrite,' and she hasn't said a word about it. Not that she really has a leg to stand on."

Juliet leaned to her left and whispered. "Are your mother and Althea really…?"

Lincoln laughed. "I know, makes no sense, does it? But yeah, they are. For almost twenty years now. We figure Al must be a serious masochist, but we're all really glad to have her in the family. Kinda wish she always had been."

"This is true," Carlton said.

"Oh, thank you, sweetie. That means a lot, comin' from you," Althea said. "You weren't too happy with the idea of your Mama an' me bein' together when you first found out."

Carlton cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Yes. Well. That was a long time ago, Al. Mom took me by surprise, and with every hateful thing I heard her say all through my childhood, can you really blame me for having been…affronted? The McLaughlin mouth bit me in the ass again."

"Well, we're all family now, aren't we?" Althea said, quite warmly. "It's just so good to have everybody back around the table together."

Myrna sniffed. _"Geena _couldn't be bothered to show up," she said.

"Geena lives in New Jersey, Ma," Carlton said, wearily. "An entire continent away."

"_Lincoln _managed to show up, for once," Myrna said.

"Lincoln moved back to Santa Barbara, Ma. He didn't fly out here just for Sunday dinner." Carlton shook his head vigorously. "Frankly, Geena is wise to stay clear. Petey has a chance to grow up halfway normal. Even if it is with a Jersey accent."

"Little half-breed," Myrna said. Carlton's eyes blazed blue fire.

"That is your _grandson _you are casting aspersions on," he said. "And might I just point out that Geena and Raul have been married for the better part of twenty years now, and by all accounts they are reasonably happy with each other to this day? That fact alone should be enough to trump the fact that he's Latino. The fact that you have a _grandson_ should trump everything."

"_I _don't have anything to do with the little bugger," Myrna said.

"Lucky for Petey, and yet, still so very sad."

"Geez, Lassy, I used to think you were majorly screwed up," Shawn said. "All paranoid and socially awkward. Now I see just how well you really turned out, all things considered."

"Thank you, Spencer."

"I think you can assign a lot of the credit to Hank Mendel," Lincoln said, "but a lot _more_ of it goes to CJ. He turned out all right because he _set himself _to turn out all right. He's the only reason the _rest_ of us turned out halfways decent."

"Oh, so now I'm a bad mother, is that what you're saying?" Myrna said.

Lincoln shrugged. "Kinda," he said.

Myrna lit into him with a verbal sortie, and Carlton put a hand on her arm. "Ma. Ma, settle down. The truth of the matter is, most of the time, you weren't there. And that's okay, we understand that. You had to work. _Dad_ sure as hell wasn't going to make sure there was always food on the table. But the fact remains that even when you were around, you were…emotionally unavailable to your children."

She settled back, mollified or possibly shamed into silence (as unlikely as that concept seemed), and the meal resumed in silence that no one seemed eager to break this time.

Juliet watched the reactions of Carlton, Lauren, and Lincoln. They were relaxed, or fairly at least, clearly not expecting trouble, so she let herself relax a bit as well. But once the plates were emptied for the first time and seconds were dished out, they all three of them tensed up considerably. Apparently, now was when things usually got hot.

Juliet looked down at her second bowl of beef stew, her second plate of chicken and green bean casserole, thought about the fact that there was a large chocolate cake sitting on the counter waiting to be served, and wondered just how Carlton and Lincoln and Lauren remained thin. She herself was already uncomfortably full, but everyone else still seemed to be going strong.

Myrna picked apart a chicken wing and fixed a beady blue eye on Shawn to her left. "So," she said. "You're the asshole psychic."

Lincoln tensed. So did Lauren. Carlton relaxed further, and a small smile played about his lips.

"Ahaa, I'm a _psychic," _Shawn said.

"Asshole's a pretty good descriptor," Carlton said.

"Consorting with _devils, _is what you do," Myrna said. "Do you know what the Bible says about a false prophet?"

"Oh boy, she's breakin' out the Bible," Lincoln said.

"Mrs. Lassiter, I assure you I do not consort with devils," Shawn said, with an ingratiating smile. "The spirits I consult are benevolent. _Benign."_

"Bullshit," Myrna said. "The dead go to Heaven or they go to Hell. They don't hang around talking to spike-haired freaks like you. Its _demons_ got their claws in you."

"You're Catholic, right? So you at least believe in Purgatory, right?" Shawn asked, confused.

"As entertaining as this is, Ma, I got to stop you," Carlton said. "There are no demons here. Spencer is not psychic. He's a liar, a cheater, a lawbreaker, an ass hat, and at times a moron, but he is not a psychic."

"If I were not psychic, how would I know that the wedding ring on Mrs. Lassiter's left hand was the same wedding ring that once graced the left hand of one Victoria Parker-Lassiter?" Shawn said.

"Shawn, _I_ told you that," Juliet said. "Just about eight years ago. I found out after I accidentally spilled the beans about Carlton's separation and she called him up at work asking for her ring back."

"Really? I thought sure it was the spirits," Shawn said.

Juliet rolled her eyes.

"Well, damn. I got nothing. This whole family is…_psychically shielded," _Shawn said. "I could say, for example, that Mrs. Lassiter never got over the dissolution of her own marriage, but that can be inferred from the fact that she still carries his name, wears the wedding ring again, and hasn't taken his picture off the wall in the living room."

Dangerous territory. Juliet took a drink of water and silently willed Shawn to leave it alone.

But Shawn, being Shawn, couldn't.

"Where is the Old Man, Lassy? Did he run off to Aruba with some lithe blonde?"

Lincoln tensed. So did Juliet. "What's the matter, Spencer? Can't find him psychically?" Lassiter said.

"He's not dead, is he?" Shawn asked.

"He might as well be. He lives in Summerland."

"I don't even remember Dad," Lauren said.

"Thank your lucky stars, Lu," Carlton said.

"Now, is that any way to talk about your own father?" Shawn said.

"You've met my mother. You had nothing to say about how I talk about _her. _My _father_ makes her look warm and fuzzy."

"It's not like you have room to talk, Shawn," Juliet said. "How do you talk about _your _father? Your father who was always there for you?"

"The fact that he was always - and I mean _always_ - there for me is exactly _why_ I talk about my father that way," Shawn said.

"You had it pretty good in the parental department, Shawn," Juliet said. "You remember when I told you _not_ to push my father back into my life? Take the seriousness of that and quadruple it, and pair it with the promise that I. Will. Shoot. You. If you try _anything like that _with Lassiter."

"But Jules, it all worked out _so well _for you," Shawn said. "Fixing broken families is just one of the many things I do well."

"I'm serious, Shawn. I. Will. Shoot. You. Until you are _dead."_

"Some families are broken for good reason," Lincoln said. "They don't need fixing."

"I don't know, I'd kind of like to meet Dad someday," Lauren said.

Her brothers stared at her.

"You say that only because you don't remember him, Lulu," Lincoln said. "If you did, you'd be very happy to forget."

"Was he really that bad?" she asked.

"He was really that bad," Carlton said.

"Your father is a first-rate drunken son of a bitch," Myrna said.

"He's not drunk _all_ the time, is he?" Lauren said.

"Pretty damn close," Carlton said. "And his personality when he's _not_ drunk isn't anything special, either. He's a…a…freakin' _gigolo_. 'Cept he never got paid."

Lauren giggled slightly. "What do you mean, Carly?"

"I mean he couldn't leave women alone. He used to take me to Civil War reenactments and NRA conventions, and he'd use me to pick 'em up."

"How?" Lincoln asked.

"I may not have been the cutest of little boys, but I did have those big, blue eyes," Carlton said, with a sniff.

"I would venture to guess you were pretty damn cute, Carlton," Juliet said, with a smile.

He grinned. "Yeah, I was."

"I still don't understand how he used a little kid to help him pick up chicks," Lauren said.

"Well, when I was really little, he'd have me pretend to be lost. I learned how to fake crying, a skill that's come in handy more than you might think. Then he'd come looking for me, all concerned-acting. The women ate it up. He'd give 'em a line about being divorced, sometimes about being widowed - 'it's just me an' the kid now' - and they'd fall all over him."

"Meanwhile, Mom was at work putting food on the table," Lincoln said.

"Mom pegged him. He's a first-rate son of a bitch," Carlton said.

"You're right, maybe I _don't_ want to meet him," Lauren said.

"So Daddy's got game," Shawn said. "Too bad that didn't rub off on you, Lassy. You wouldn't be so…_lacking_ for female companionship."

"I'd rather 'lack' than bounce from bed to bed like a freakin' bedbug or the latest STD," Carlton said. "I know that's an odd concept for _you, _Spencer."

"Besides, from what I hear, Carlton's got game of his own," Juliet said, with a small smile.

"Jules, what are you saying?" Shawn asked.

"Just a little something I heard from…_Parole Officer Ursula Gibb."_

Carlton's face turned bright red and he rendered himself speechless with a huge spoonful of beef stew.

"Are you suggesting there's one woman in this world who was not traumatized by an encounter with Carlton 'Dead Clown Story' Lassiter?" Shawn said.

"Oh, according to ladies' room rumor, there are quite a _few _women who weren't traumatized," Juliet said. "Or wouldn't be."

"You can't believe everything you hear in a public restroom, O'Hara," Carlton said.

"According to the Biscuit Lady, you're a terrific kisser," Juliet said, and Carlton choked.

"Ugh. Thanks for that, Jules," Shawn said. "Put me right off my feed."

Juliet looked at his empty plate. "After two full platefuls of food and two bowls of beef stew, the thought of Carlton kissing makes you not hungry?"

"I guess that means you _don't want _a piece of cake?" Althea asked.

"Er…no…yes…I mean, _cake, please."_

"That's what I thought," Althea said, smiling. She got up and cut the cake and started passing out pieces.

Lincoln accepted his slice with thanks. He looked at his brother with a small smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

"So, CJ…Ursula Gibb?"

Carlton sighed. "One of those rare instances of a date that went remarkably well until I found out just a little bit too late that the woman is a first class shit bird whackaloon." He shook a finger at Juliet. "You take _anything_ she tells you with a _whole shaker _of salt."

Juliet couldn't help herself; she had to say it. "So you _didn't_…'rock her world like an 8.5 on the Richter scale?'"

Lassiter choked again and slugged down his water, throwing his long neck back.

Shawn paused with his fork poised over his slice of cake, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You know, you take that a certain way, and it's not so flattering. So she's comparing him to an earthquake, right? Exciting at first, but it ends in _disaster."_

"I don't think that's the way Ursula meant it," Juliet said, with a feline smile.

"Could we talk about something else, please?" Carlton said.

Gus turned to Lauren. "So, have you heard about Pluto? That's messed up, right?"

Juliet turned back to her cake, which was very tasty despite how little room there was left in her tummy for it, and by God she was going to have to jog her ass off this week to make up for this one meal. She supposed it wasn't very nice to tease Carlton about what she'd heard in the ladies' room from Ursula and the Biscuit Lady (whose name she didn't know and doubted Carlton did, either). It was just irresistible. Of course, now she had to stop thinking about it somehow, and that wasn't so easy to do, especially since Ursula in particular was very descriptive in her account of his lean body, his long fingers, his warm mouth, and what he could do with all of the above.

"Jules, you're so flushed. What's wrong?" Shawn asked.

"Nothing," she said, perhaps a bit too quickly. She turned to look at Lassiter and asked a question that had been on her mind ever since she'd mentioned his separation.

"Carlton, how did you keep your separation a secret from your mother for two years if you come to her house every Sunday for dinner?"

Lincoln grinned and answered for him. "Veronica never came to these little family get-togethers. Not once. Sensible of her, I suppose."

"Victoria," Carlton said.

"So…every Sunday, all through your marriage, you came and had dinner with your family…without your _wife?"_ Juliet asked him.

"Yep."

"I don't know about you, Detective O'Hara, but I call that a warning sign," Lincoln said, with a smirk. "Not that we were _ever_ going to be good enough for Veronica Parker, even if we managed to behave ourselves in front of her. Too low-class."

"_Victoria," _Carlton said again.

"I don't choose to remember her name, bro."

"And when did any of you ever behave yourselves in front of her?" Carlton went on. "My God, the wedding was a disaster. You got drunk and sang 'My Heart Will Go On' and Ma and Gramma got in a tag-team wrestling match with Victoria's mother and her aunt. Irving called the cops. There was a write-up in the _Courier_ about the brawl at a police officer's wedding."

"I was twenty-one, dude. You can't blame me for getting drunk at twenty-one. It's entirely out of a man's hands at that age - and that song was very popular at the time, I might mention. And in all fairness to Ma and Gramma, Veronica's mother and aunt were horrendous bitches."

"Damn straight," Myrna said.

"_Victori _- oh, forget it," Carlton sighed.

They finished up their cake and Myrna and Althea got up and started scraping leftovers into Tupperware containers. That was apparently the signal for Carlton to get up, roll up his shirtsleeves, and begin collecting the empty plates and used silverware from the table. He tapped Shawn hard on the shoulder.

"Come on, you. Guster; you, too. It's time to wash the dishes."

"Don't you have a dishwasher?" Shawn asked.

"That's what sons - _and uninvited guests _- are for," Carlton said. "Get up, now. Spencer, you wash. Guster, you dry. I'll put away. Break a dish and I'll kill you."

He loaded up the sink and ran hot water in it, with a squirt of Dawn dish detergent, then positioned Spencer next to the sink. "Get started."

"Dude, this water is boiling. Can't I have, like, some _gloves_ or something?"

Juliet saw Lincoln flinch. "Talkin' to the _wrong person, _dude," he muttered.

Carlton grabbed Shawn's hand and plunged it, with his, into the steaming water. He held Spencer's gaze while the younger man writhed and made gasping sounds of pain. "Toughen up, you wiener," he said, and let go at last.

Lincoln stood up from the table. "Let's go in the living room and get out of their way, eh?" he said, and Juliet, Lauren, Grandma, and Aunt Carolyn joined him. The younger folks repaired to the sofa while Grandma and Aunt Carolyn took the armchairs.

"You were awfully quiet today, Ma," Carolyn said.

"I don't speak to the Hellbound," she said. "That young man in there is going to Hell."

"Ah. Should've guessed," Carolyn said.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. May contain spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen (You Know How I Do It): Silver Lining**

After they finished up the dishes - Spencer grumbling and whining about his poor widdle hands all the while - everyone repaired to the back porch, where there were only four Adirondack chairs - reserved for Myrna and Gramma and Althea and Aunt Carolyn - but where it was nevertheless somehow far more comfortable to sit, even when Mother lit up one of her beloved cigarettes.

"Oh, here comes Cynthia Marshall, as usual," Myrna said, taking a puff on her coffin nail. "Always gotta take some of Booker's time."

A slender, gray-haired woman dressed in white slacks and a faded green shirt approached them from the front yard, coming no further than the side of the house. Juliet thought she looked faintly bewildered, as though she wasn't quite sure where she was or why she was there, but her eyes sought out Carlton immediately, without the least confusion between him and Lincoln, though they were dressed so similarly.

"Carlton…?" she ventured. Lassiter stood up and went to talk to her, very quietly. She clasped his arm as though seeking foundation. Juliet couldn't hear what they said, but it did seem that the older woman sought some form of comfort from him. A strange thing to seek from Carlton Lassiter, of all people, but…

…but he seemed to be trying to _give_ it to her. His whole demeanor was different from…any other time Juliet had seen him speak with _anyone. _There was no aggression, not so much as a hint of impatience. He was calm, and spoke softly, and let her hang on to his arm, and before they walked away from each other, he enfolded her in a warm hug of the type Juliet had fancied he only ever shared with her, and far less awkward than most of those. He walked back to them slowly, as slowly as Mrs. Marshall walked away, and Juliet felt an unexpected tear track down her cheek, at the thought of what that poor woman had lost and the pale substitute she sought from Carlton.

"Leech," Myrna said, and flicked the ash off the end of her cigarette.

_Ugly woman. Ugly, ugly woman, _Juliet thought, though she tried very hard not to. She thought about what Shawn had said - that Lassiter had really turned out very well, all things considered - and had to agree. She thought about what Lincoln had said when she first met him, that Carlton's career choices had been limited to cop and serial killer, and couldn't help agreeing with that, too.

"Booker. You gonna look at my roof, now?" Myrna called, and Carlton sighed.

"Sure, Ma." He went to a small tool shed on the back edge of the property and slid open the door. He disappeared inside and came out a few moments later carrying a metal extension ladder, which he set up at the side of the house where the roof sloped down. He took off his tie and laid it on the edge of the back deck. He grabbed the rungs and started to climb.

"Hey, wait a minute, bro," Lincoln said. "Why don't you take your shirt off?"

"Why would I do that?" Carlton said.

"Yeah, really, why would he do that?" Shawn said. "No one wants to see that."

"It's a nice shirt; you could rip it," Lincoln said. "Besides, how many opportunities do you get to show off that tattoo of yours?"

"You have a tattoo, Carlton?" Juliet asked.

"I didn't get the tattoo to show it off," Lassiter said.

"Come on, bro. I can barely remember what it looks like."

"Okay, I may regret this, but now I wanna see, too," Shawn said. "The thought of Lassy having a tattoo kind of blows my mind. What's it of, Lass? Wait, let me guess - 'Mother.'"

Carlton came back down the ladder and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Spencer, oh great psychic one, you know me well enough to 'divine' what kind of tattoo _I_ would get," he said.

"He got it blessed by our priest," Lincoln said.

"And I made certain he would do that before I got the damn thing. Jewelry isn't really my style."

"A _blessed_ tattoo? And something to do with jewelry?" Shawn said.

"It's Saint Michael," Juliet said.

"Got it in one," Lassiter said.

"Of course," Shawn said. "Patron saint of police. Why didn't _I_ think of that?"

"You're kind of a heathen, Shawn," Gus said. "I'm sort of surprised you even knew what Michael was patron of."

"Gus, don't be the big, gooey vein in a piece of fried chicken."

"Come on, Carlton, let's see your tattoo," Juliet said, smiling.

"You don't want to see my tattoo, O'Hara," he said.

"Is it in an embarrassing spot?" she asked.

He shook his head, slowly. "It's on my back."

"Then what's the problem?" she said. Then, "Wait - I saw part of your back, that day we got scrubbed down in the coffee shop parking lot by the CDC. I didn't see any tattoo."

"It's on my _lower_ back," he said. "Well, really, more in the middle. But it doesn't go up onto my shoulders, which should have been all of me you saw. And even _that_ was too damn much."

"Come on, Lassy, let's see the tattoo," Shawn said.

"It's just a tattoo. A tattoo an awful lot of cops have, by the way."

"Show 'em the tat, bro," Lincoln said. "It's really beautiful. CJ went to every parlor in the city looking for a tattoo artist who was actually a, you know, _artist."_

"Come on, Carly, you've never even shown me before," Lauren said. "I wanna see."

Lassiter sighed, rolled his eyes, and unbuttoned his shirt. Clearly uncomfortable, he pulled it off and folded it carefully before laying it on top of the tie on the deck. He sighed again, his arms crossed protectively over his well-furred chest, and rolled his eyes again, and finally he turned around.

It _was_ a beautiful tattoo, rendered on his pale skin in almost sepia tones. The archangel wore bronze armor, and his golden wings were outstretched. The expression on his face was calm, but proud and a bit stern. The face of a warrior. He held out both hands, and resting upright on the palm of each was a shield badge. _Two_ shield badges. Both with numbers on them.

Juliet got up and went closer. The number drawn on the right-hand badge was Lassiter's - 856-SBPD. The left-hand badge, clearly drawn in by a different hand and far more recently, bore the number _897_-SBPD.

Juliet's badge number.

She reached out and touched the left-hand badge. "Carlton…" she said.

"Don't freak out, O'Hara," he said.

"I'm not freaking out," she said.

"It's just…you're the first partner I ever had that stuck," he said. "And you've gotta look out for your partner, right?"

"Carlton. I'm not freaking out," she said again, more firmly. "I think it's sweet."

"I've…gotta get up on the roof," he said, and climbed the ladder like someone was chasing him.

Juliet turned around and walked back to the deck. Shawn's face was once again screwed up in that twisted expression of intense contemplation. She didn't spare it much thought. Either he would or he wouldn't say what was on his mind. She'd probably prefer it if he didn't.

Carlton stomped around up on the roof for a few minutes, then came back down the ladder. He reached for his shirt and began to put it on.

"Well, what's the verdict?" Myrna said, flicking the ash off her cigarette again.

"It looks to _me_ like you've got some damage," he said, buttoning his shirt. "I don't know that it's enough for the insurance company to shell out for repairs. The adjustor will have to make that decision."

"Lassifrass."

Lassiter sighed, his eyes closed, then opened them and looked at Spencer. "What?"

"Lassiraptor."

"I reiterate: What?"

"Lassa Apso."

"What. Do. You. _Want, _Spencer?"

"I don't think…I like the idea…of you having Jules' badge number on your back."

"Too damn bad," Lassiter said.

"You have…a representation…of _my_ girlfriend…on your pasty, white, fish belly Irish skin. And I. Do. Not. Like. It."

"I have a representation of _my partner _on my pasty white fish belly Irish skin, and don't you forget it. She was my partner _long before _she was your girlfriend."

"_Furthermore," _Shawn said, as if he had not spoken, "earlier at dinner, you implied that I do not treat Jules in a manner you consider 'good enough.'"

Lassiter grabbed up his tie. "Did I imply that? I'm sorry, Spencer. I'll say it flat out. You don't treat her good enough. When you smacked her ass at Billy Lipps' house? I don't know why she didn't turn around and shoot you. You treat her like a toy, and sometimes you treat her like a child. What you _don't_ do is treat her with respect, as an officer of the law _or_ as a woman. I would have shot you myself long ago, except for some damn reason she actually seems to love your stupid ass, so that would only end up hurting her."

"You don't get to make the determination of how good or how bad I treat Jules. _Jules_ has no complaints about the way I treat her," Spencer said.

"Actually, Shawn, you could treat me a whole hell of a lot better," Juliet said, surprising herself. "Even just…_listening_ to me, once in awhile, would be a vast improvement."

He gaped at her, then shook his head. "No. No. No. You love me, Jules - even Lassy can see that. And I love you. We're good for each other. We're _perfect_ for each other. Lassy's got you all upset - he's good at that - and you're not thinking clearly right now. I've got just the cure for that, and Lassy can choke on it."

He dropped to one knee before her and reached into his jeans pocket. He pulled out an obviously antique ring. Juliet's eyes grew huge.

"_Shawn, _you promised you were going to give that back to Henry," Gus said.

"Dear sweet God in Heaven," Lassiter said, almost moaning. "Lincoln, are you coming with me or do you want to try and catch a ride back from Lauren? Because I'm leaving. Right now."

"What about Detective O'Hara?" Lincoln said.

"She can get a ride with the ass hat of her dreams," Lassiter said. He headed for the Fusion parked at the curb.

Juliet still hadn't reacted beyond the widening of her eyes.

"Come on, Jules, what do you say?" Shawn said. "You and me, forever, and _Lassy_ can suck it."

There was the sound of scratching at the back door. Althea got up and let the dog out of the house. Fritzy wandered off the deck and into the grass, ignoring everyone, and sniffed around a bit. Lassiter had come to a standstill beside the driver's side door of his car, waiting for Lincoln to climb in the passenger seat, and perhaps, all against his will, to hear Juliet's response. Fritzy sniffed his way over to where Shawn knelt. Still taking no apparent notice of him or anyone else, the dog backed into position and raised his hind leg, spraying Shawn's jeans with hot urine.

"Ewww," Shawn said, bounding to his feet.

Lassiter smiled. "Aw, Fritzy, good dog!" he said.

"This dog just _ruined_ my best jeans!" Shawn said.

"Oh come on, Spencer. That dog could ruin every article of clothing you possess and you'd be out, what, twenty bucks?" Lassiter said. He slid into the driver's seat, slammed the door, and started the car. He peeled out with the sound of screeching tires.

The unpleasant sound seemed to break Juliet out of a trancelike state. She shot to her feet and grabbed the ring Shawn still held. "You promised to give this back to Henry?" she said, holding it up in front of him. "Am I to assume, then, that you _stole_ it from him?"

"I _borrowed_ it from him," Shawn said.

"Without asking," she said. "And it's not _borrowing_ when you intend to give it to someone else!"

"Jules, come on. It's my G'amma Spencer's ring. She'd want me to give to the girl I love."

"Probably so. And probably Henry would have been happy to give it to you for that purpose - _if you had only asked."_

"I told him. I did," Gus said.

"And this proposal. Are you asking me to marry you because you're ready for that and that's what you really want, or just so Lassiter can 'choke on it?' Did you really expect to sweep me off my feet with a proposal of marriage that was issued more as a challenge to a bitter rival?"

"Jules. Come on. You know I wouldn't have the ring if I wasn't ready."

"You've had the ring a long time, Shawn, and you most definitely weren't ready," Gus said.

Juliet got out her cell. "What are you doing, Jules?" Shawn asked.

"I'm calling a cab, since my ride left without me."

"Jules, come on. Gus and I can take you home." Shawn chuckled. "We're going to the same place, after all."

"I don't want to go anywhere with you right now, Shawn," Juliet said. "I'm going home just long enough to jump in my car, and then I'm going to Henry's and I'm going to give him back this ring and tell him to lock it up good. After that, I'll…well, I don't know what I'll do, but don't expect me to be home early."


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+, but slightly M-ish

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. May contain spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: Splendid Isolation**

Juliet stepped off the elevator, wondering at exactly what point she'd made the decision to drive to Prospect Gardens in the first place.

Henry merely cocked an eyebrow at her when she showed up at his door, took the ring and her explanation - perhaps more in detail than she'd meant for it to be, but she felt the need to vent - and asked her if she was all right.

"I'm just fine, Henry," she said.

"You're sure?" he'd asked. "'Cause it seems to me, my boy was _especially stupid _today."

"He was. But I'm fine."

"Did you call it off completely?"

"What do you mean?"

"The relationship."

"No. No, I…I guess I didn't."

That eyebrow shot up on his forehead again, but he merely nodded. "I'll put this in a safe place," he said, gesturing with the ring. "If there is such a place, when one is talking about Shawn."

"Good. It's not such a bad idea, using a family heirloom, but he needs to go about it the _right _way. From start to finish."

"Agreed," Henry said. "You take 'er easy, Juliet. You deserve better than what you got today. From start to finish."

"Thanks, Henry."

From there, without conscious thought, she'd driven straight to the imposing old building where her partner lived and taken the elevator to the fifth floor.

As she approached the door of unit 536 she heard music. Faint music, but music nevertheless. And louder, overlaying it, a clear, powerful voice singing along. It sounded like Lincoln. Somehow, she knew it wasn't.

"_Was it something I did in another life? I try and try, but nothing comes out right for me. Bad karma, killing me by degree. I took a wrong turn on the astral plane, now I keep on thinking my luck isn't gonna change someday. Bad karma, it's uphill all the way."_

She didn't bother knocking. She took out her key and put it in the lock. She opened the door and the music came clearer. A black and silver head was visible - he was slouched down on the loveseat in front of the darkened TV set.

"_I can't run, can't hide, can't get away. It must be my destiny. The same things happen to me every day. Bad karma, coming after me. Bad karma, killing me by degree. Bad karma…bad karma."_

She approached him cautiously. Perhaps he hadn't heard her come in over the sitar and guitar and drums. He utterly ignored her as the song continued, singing along in a loud, clear voice that was, she had to admit, somewhat more pleasant to her ear than the actual singer's voice, which was throaty and weather-beaten but certainly distinct. She sat down next to him, smoothing out her skirt primly.

"Thank you for not drawing on me," she said, and he nodded slowly.

"I locked my spares up in my gun safe," he said at last, after several beats of silence where the music continued without him. "Lincoln would shoot himself in the foot."

"Where is Lincoln?"

"In the bathroom, getting ready. He has a date tonight."

The song cycled back to the chorus and he began to sing along again. "Who's the singer?" she asked.

"Warren Zevon. The second disc of the _I'll Sleep When I'm Dead _anthology," he said, with a strange smile curving his lips.

"Cheerful."

"Most of his songs are."

"Carlton?"

"Yeah?"

"When did you get my badge number tattooed on your back?"

"When I knew you were going to _stick _as my partner," he said.

"And when was that?" she asked.

He was silent for a moment, and appeared to be chewing the inside of his lip. Then he said, simply, "Clock tower."

"Oh."

Another brief pause. "I knew you were gonna stick long before that, but I…I guess it was inertia. That tattoo was blank a long damned time. After Yin, I…guess I panicked. Thought you needed a little extra protection."

The disc segued into another song, sweeter and far less manic.

"_If you're all alone, if you need someone, call me up and I'll come running. Reconsider me, reconsider me. If it's still the past that makes you doubt; darling, that was then, and this is now. Reconsider me, reconsider me."_

"Why are you here, O'Hara?" he asked abruptly.

She shrugged. "I don't really know."

He snorted. "Go on, get out of here. Go celebrate your engagement."

"I turned him down, Carlton."

He was silent, but somehow radiated skepticism.

"_You can go and be what you want to be, and it'll be all right if we disagree. I'm the one who cares, and I hope you'll see, that I'm the one who loves you. Reconsider me."_

He suddenly sat forward, grabbed up the stereo remote, and hit the "skip forward" button.

"Don't like that song?" she asked, mildly. "I thought it was kind of nice."

"Not in the mood," he said, and settled back with the remote on his knee.

The next song featured a low background chant of what Juliet was certain were the names of industrial environmental toxins.

"_I went walking in the wasted city…started thinking about entropy. Smelled the wind from the ruined river, went home to watch TV. And it's worse when I try to remember, when I think about then and now. I'd rather see it on the news at eleven. Sit back and watch it run straight down."_

"You like this guy, don't you, Carlton?" she asked.

"He's one of my all-time favorites."

"I always had you figured for a Rat-Packer."

"I like them, too."

"Carlton…why would you think I would accept that miserable excuse for a proposal?"

"Because you love the assmunch. Because for some reason, you tolerate the way he treats you. Because you forgive him every _ass-hatted _move he makes."

"He wasn't _proposing_ to me, he was _challenging_ you."

"Why should that make a difference? It never has in the past."

"_So we hide our eyes and wonder who'll survive…waiting for the night…"_

"I'm sorry, Carlton, that I ever made you feel that way," Juliet said, slowly.

He was silent, and she went silent too, and listened to the music wend its dreary way to conclusion. The next song was more upbeat, but only slightly.

"_When I was young, times were hard. When I got older, it was worse. First words I ever heard, 'Nobody move, nobody get hurt!' It's the long arm, it's the strong arm, it's the long arm of the law. It's the long arm, it's the strong arm, it's the long arm of the law."_

Juliet chuckled. "You like _this_ song, don't you?"

"Actually the lyrics ultimately seem kind of critical of law enforcement - or at least, they're definitely from the perspective of a crook."

"Huh. I'm surprised you listen to it at all, then."

"I can get a little critical of law enforcement from time to time, myself."

"Carlton…talk to me," she said.

"I'm talking," he said.

"You know what I mean," she said. "Talk to me about…_this."_

"There's nothing to talk about, O'Hara."

"_Now don't protest your innocence. Only the dead get off scot-free. When the judge says 'Whodunit?' you'll be crying, 'Not me! Not me!'"_

"Carlton, you _know _we need to talk about this. We can't have this stuck between us like a…a…a piece of broccoli stuck between our teeth."

"Interesting analogy," he said.

"Come on, let's talk it out."

The song ended and segued into another. Once again, he began to sing along.

"_I want to live all alone in the desert, I want to be like Georgia O'Keefe. I want to live on the Upper East side, and never go down in the street. Splendid isolation; I don't need no one. Splendid isolation."_

"Carlton," she said, snapping his name out a bit like a slap across the face. For the first time, he turned his head and looked at her. "Carlton. You are my best friend. You matter to me. I'm sorry if it has seemed like you don't. I'm sorry if I let Shawn interfere with our friendship. With our _partnership."_

"Spencer can't _help_ but interfere, with everyone and everything he comes into contact with," Lassiter said.

"Nevertheless. It was _my_ responsibility to make sure my other relationships didn't suffer."

He looked away again. "He's your…boyfriend," he said, and getting the word out was clearly a struggle. "You _have_ to put him first. Friendships always suffer when you're involved."

"Maybe. A little. But our _partnership_ never should have. On the job, _you_ come first. Always."

"Yeah. Right," he said. She couldn't tell if he was sarcastic or not.

He started singing again.

"_Don't want to wake up with no one beside me. Don't want to take up with nobody new. Don't want nobody coming by without calling first. Don't want nothing to do with you."_

She grabbed the remote off his knee and pushed the power button, cutting Zevon off in mid-warble. "No more," she said. "Not when you're in this mood. That song's giving you bad ideas, double-negatives aside."

Lincoln poked his head out of the bathroom off the kitchen. "Did you just turn off his music?" he said. "Ballsy."

"It's the wrong kind of music for the mood he's in," Juliet said. "It's just feeding the negativity."

Lincoln came out of the bathroom. He was wearing worn jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He jingled a set of keys.

"Well, I'm out. Don't wait up, big bro. Oh, and by the way, if _you_ need a little extra privacy tonight?" He held up both hands in pre-explosion supplication. "Not saying anything, just being practical. Just…tie a tie or put a sock on the doorknob or something, right? Bye."

He left, and the silence he left in his wake was very, very loud.

That is, until Lassiter's phone started ringing. _"Send lawyers, guns, and money,"_ the voice sang abruptly, quite obviously the same voice they'd been listening to all along.

"Whose ringtone is that?" Juliet asked.

"Spencer's. Seemed appropriate, since the only time he calls me, other than to prank me, is to bail his stupid ass out of some dumb stunt or other."

He answered the phone with an ornery, "What do _you_ want?"

"Lassy. My man. Let me talk to Jules."

"If you want to talk to O'Hara, call _her_, nimrod."

"She wouldn't answer it right now."

"Well if she doesn't want to talk to you on her phone, what makes you think she'll want to talk to you on mine? And how do you know she's here, anyway?"

"Lassy. Dude. Come on, man."

"Don't start that psychic bullcrunch with me, Spencer." He handed Juliet the phone. "Talk to your idiot boyfriend."

"I don't really want to," she said.

"_Talk to him, _or he'll never leave me alone."

She sighed and spoke into the phone. "What, Shawn?"

"Jules. Baby. Are you coming home tonight?"

She sighed again. "Can't you _divine_ whether I'm coming home or not?" she said.

"Jules. _Talk _to me."

"Yes, I'll be home tonight. I don't know when."

"Jules, we need to talk about this, baby."

"I know. I know we do. But I can't talk right now, Shawn. I'm still too angry. Tomorrow. Tomorrow we'll talk. Goodbye."

She hung up and handed the phone back to Lassiter. He slipped it into his pocket wordlessly.

"I've got an idea," she said at last, when the silence settled down around them again and grew heavy. "Let's go for a drive."

"O'Hara, if you want to go for a drive, then go," Lassiter said.

"No, silly, _both_ of us. We can run through Los Padres. Driving out there will relax you."

"Los Padres? Geez Louise, woman. That's not a drive, that's a_ journey."_

"Then let's take a _journey," _she said. "Come on, it'll be fun."

"All right, whatever you want. My car?" He hoisted himself up off the loveseat and reached for the set of keys on the end table.

"Your car," she said. "Your _other _car."

"My _other _car?"

"You know what I mean. That beautiful Stingray. The rumble of the engine will be like getting a massage."

He sighed deeply and shook his head. "You don't want to talk, you just want a ride in my car."

"Can't it be both?" she said. "And you _will _tell me the story of how you ended up with a Stingray, but I won't make you tell me tonight."

"Thank you," he said, only a trifle sarcastically. "I'll go get the keys."

She got up and followed him, into his bedroom. There was a large ceramic box on the table next to the head of the bed, and when he opened it she peered over his shoulder to see in it. She saw a rather ancient square of black plastic and a greenish-gray hardcover book.

"_The Call of the Wild?" _she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"What's that other thing?"

He picked up the square of black plastic and opened it up to reveal a timeworn plastic police badge.

"So this is what you saved from the fire," she said.

"Yeah. Actually, there were _three_ things I saved. One was stuffed inside the book."

"What was it?"

He picked up the book and opened it. A yellowed target sheet spilled out into his hand, a single bullet hole in it just to the right of center. "My first shot," he said. "Not bad, considering I was eleven and just barely strong enough to pull the trigger on Hank's old Peacemaker."

"A natural-born gunslinger, eh?"

His lips curved in a faint smile. "Hank was a good teacher."

He put the paper back inside the book and the book back inside the box. He laid the toy badge on top of it.

"What was the name of the cop who gave you the badge?" Juliet asked, sure he would remember. He looked at her for a moment with an inscrutable expression.

"Spencer," he said at last.

Juliet gasped. "You mean it was…?"

"Henry. Yes. I don't think he remembers. Kinda hope he doesn't, anyway. If he does, he's kept it quiet, for which I can only be grateful."

"How old were you?"

"Eleven."

"That was a big year for you, wasn't it?"

"You have no idea. You know…the year Henry retired…was the year _I _was made Head Detective."

"You think it was cause and effect?"

"I don't know. I think _I_ might retire, if some punk kid I once gave a toy badge to got promoted over _me."_

"Even if that's true, it's not your fault, Carlton. You earned your position, and he made his own decision."

"But did I earn my position?" he said quietly. "They always called me 'Fenich's pet.'"

"Carlton. You are a great detective. You made Head Detective because you belong there."

She believed it was true. It had to be. Carlton was not the kind to rise on anything other than hard damned work. Maybe he got a little boost here and there, when he really needed it, from a Hank Mendel or a John Fenich, but he mostly pulled himself up by his _own_ bootstraps.

The only other thing in the ceramic box was a set of keys on a Corvette keychain. He pulled them out, and Juliet's fingers itched to take them from him. But he needed to relax, which meant he needed to drive. That was true any time they were in the car together, but would hold especially true, she felt, in the Stingray. He was probably obsessive over it. Judging by the state of the paint job, he never let it get dirty or scratched. Just parking it in a public garage must set his teeth on edge, and she wouldn't be very surprised to learn that the spots to either side of it remained empty because he'd paid for them.

They left the condo and he locked up, then on the way to the elevator, Art, down the hall, opened his door and yelled at them for making too much noise even though they weren't even talking. Juliet wondered how he tolerated the music.

"I suppose you want the top down," Lassiter said as they at last approached the beautiful midnight blue Stingray, with its white accents, white top, and white leather upholstery.

"Damn straight I want the top down," she said.

He started the engine, loud and throbbing in the enclosed garage. He put the top down, and Juliet sat in the passenger seat and let the rumble of the engine fill her senses. He put the car into reverse gear and backed carefully out of the spot, then drove down the ramp and out of the garage and into the sunshine. She respected his silence on the long drive out to Los Padres National Forest, and he did slowly start to relax once the city was behind them.

She glanced at him and caught him smiling. Well, what was there not to smile about? Top down, sunshine, the fragrant wind, the low, almost musical growl of the engine. Troubles were a million miles away.

_Shawn_ was a million miles away.

"You should let this baby out of the garage more often," Juliet said at last.

"I get a little paranoid about it," Lassiter admitted. "When I was at university it was the only vehicle I had. I was constantly terrified it would get stolen. I mean look at it, it's a joy-rider's wet dream, isn't it? Except these days most of 'em can't figure out how to work a stick."

"I bet driving this thing to school got you a lot of action," she said.

He glanced at her, wincing. "That's a crude way to put it, but…I suppose the credit for most if not all of the 'action' I saw at university had something to do with this car. Certainly it drew attention I would not otherwise have gotten."

"This car and those eyes," Juliet said, and he blushed.

"What is the big damn deal with my damned eyes?" he muttered. "They're just…eyes."

"Oh yeah, they're just eyes like this car is just a car. A true statement, but _lacking_ something significant."

She looked directly at him for a long moment. "This car was really a gift? It cost you _nothing?"_

"Hell no, it cost me nothing. O'Hara, I was kid, just starting out in life, and I was from a socio-economic background that found the registration and insurance premiums _alone_ hard to cope with, financially. I had to work my _ass _off for this car. And that's not counting the work I put in to actually making it road-worthy again. It was a mess. But I didn't actually have to pay to fix it up and reupholster it and put the new paint job on it, and I didn't actually have to pay anything to own it. It was, as you say, a gift."

"From Chief Fenich."

"_Head Detective _Fenich, at that time. He didn't make Chief 'til Herb Wilkins retired in '96. And I thought you weren't going to pester me for this story tonight?"

"I can't help being curious. Just…help me understand this. How did a _cop_ ever afford a car like this in the first place, let alone be able to afford to _give it away?"_

"He said he came from money. The car was the last vestige of that life he'd held on to. I don't know how he justified shelling out for new chrome and new upholstery and everything else this car needed and not getting anything out of it."

"And he gave it to _you_, in _particular, _because…?"

"_That, _you would have to ask _him_. I can give you his number."

"Not necessary. My curiosity on that point can remain unassuaged."

He drove another mile before she turned to him and asked, "And somehow, this all came about - the car, I mean - because you played hooky from school?"

He sighed. "Lincoln has _such_ a big mouth," he said. "Yes, O'Hara, indirectly."

"I know I said I wouldn't pester you for this story tonight, but…how the heck does that work?"

"Fenich caught me. Instead of arresting me, which he could have, he put me to work restoring the 'Vette, which he kept in a barn out by his house in the county."

"He could have arrested you for playing hooky? Was that a prosecutable offense in the eighties?"

"I wasn't just playing hooky," he said, after a long and clearly uncomfortable pause.

"You weren't? Carlton, what were you doing?" she asked, looking at him as though she couldn't believe what she was hearing. She couldn't. Carlton Lassiter playing hooky was unbelievable enough, but Carlton Lassiter committing an arrestable offense beggared the imagination.

He sighed, a heavy exhalation of breath. "What you need to understand, O'Hara, is that I was _sixteen_, I was _stupid, _and my best friend had just died in a car crash I was _certain_ I could have prevented if I had just been in the car with him like he _wanted_ me to be. I was not…myself."

"Carlton, what did you do?" she said, in a breathless voice.

"Fenich caught me…smoking a reefer." He said this in a manner that spoke of how _deeply_ ashamed he was.

Juliet sat back in the passenger seat and let out a relieved laugh. "Is that all?"

"Is that _all? _Isn't that _enough? _Drugs are for weak people, O'Hara, and I always knew that. But at that time, I admit it, I was…weak. Drowning. Fenich came along and pulled me up so my head was above water again."

"You were young. And in horrible circumstances, from the sounds of things. You needed help, and you reached for a bad coping device, like millions of other people. It sounds like you got help and found a better way. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Yes it is," he muttered. "I could have destroyed my entire life with _one_ marijuana cigarette."

"But you didn't. Let it go, Carlton. You don't need to hang on to the guilt."

"I'm Catholic, it's ingrained."

Silence for a few miles. The sun was going down. "Find us a place with a good western view and let's watch the sunset," Juliet said.

"We're in a _forest, _O'Hara."

"We can still see _some_ of the colors over the treetops," she said.

He found a turnout and stopped the car. He did not turn off the engine. Juliet sat and watched the colors in the western sky for a moment, and then, heeding an impulse she didn't stop to think about, she reached over into Lassiter's lap.

He drew himself up in the seat sharply, with a hard inhalation of breath. "What the hell are you doing?" he said, and then, "That's not the parking brake."

"I honestly don't know what I'm doing," Juliet said, "but I know what it is."

Gingerly, he took her hand by the wrist and plucked it out of his lap and dropped it into hers. She felt absurdly disappointed, even as she realized there were a host of reasons why what she had done was a Bad Idea, not the least of which being the fact that she had a boyfriend and it was _not_ the man she was sitting beside.

"I vote we go home now and never speak of this, _ever," _he said.

"I'll agree to that," she said, but she couldn't keep herself from adding a mental _for now._ He put the car back into gear and pulled out onto the road headed back to Santa Barbara. They drove the long distance in utter silence.

The silence remained unbroken until he pulled the Stingray into his reserved space in the parking garage of Prospect Gardens, when Juliet said, in a rush, "Could I borrow your Warren Zevon CDs? I found him interesting and I'd like to hear more."

"Sure. I've got everything he ever came out with," he said, clearly grateful for an innocuous subject. "Come on up, and I'll get 'em for you."

"Do you think Lincoln's home by now?" she asked, climbing out of the car after he put the top up.

"Doubtful. He'll probably spend the night with tonight's lady. He had a date last night, too. Different girl. He hasn't changed all that much."

They left the garage and entered the building, rode the elevator up to the fifth floor. Bustling now, he let her in to unit 536 and went to pull crystal cases out of a long box cabinet containing innumerable CDs on several shelves. It left a sizable hole in his library when he had them all. He piled them into Juliet's arms.

"That's everything. Oh - I'll get you disc two of the _I'll Sleep When I'm Dead _anthology off the stereo turntable. That top one, _Enjoy Every Sandwich? _That's actually a tribute album, released after Zevon died. It's got singers like Springsteen and Dillon…" His face twisted into an interesting expression of disgust or chagrin. "…and Adam Sandler and Billy Bob Thornton. And honestly, Dillon murders 'Mutineer.' That man should really be restricted to being a song_writer."_

"Thanks," she said, a bit steamrollered by his brisk attitude and the encumbrance of the CDs. "I'll give these a listen and get 'em back to you as soon as I can."

"No rush," he said. "Just…keep Spencer's filthy mitts off of 'em, okay?"

"Okay. Well, I…guess I'd better go, then. Good night, Carlton."

"Goodnight, O'Hara."

* * *

Songs excerpted in this chapter are: "Bad Karma," "Reconsider Me," "Run Straight Down," "Long Arm of the Law," "Splendid Isolation," and "Lawyers, Guns, and Money" (which is actually my ringtone), all by Warren Zevon, copyright dates unknown (I'm too lazy to look 'em up). Standard disclaimer: I own nothing, earned nothing. And I actually have never minded Bob Dillon's singing voice, but he really did murder "Mutineer." It's easier to listen to Adam Sandler sing "Werewolves of London." Or indeed to Billy Bob Thornton sing "The Wind." But I digress.

**A/N: **Those of you who have read my other Psych works may recognize that I lifted the story of the Stingray from one of my earliest fics, "After the Shots Rang Out," which I guess you could call a Shassiet (it's complicated). The fact of the matter is, I really, _really_ want a '66 Stingray, but _in my dreams_, as they say. So I gave one to Lassie. I liked the idea of the gifted Stingray and thought this was a good opportunity to expand upon the backstory (it's coming, in "The Rear View Mirror"). I will admit it is _the_ unlikeliest of scenarios. But this is fiction, where such things are allowed to happen.


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. May contain spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: In The Dark Watches of the Night**

Lassiter couldn't sleep. His heart was pounding, and the memory was fixated in his mind.

The memory of what? Come on, son.

He just didn't understand why she had done it. She wasn't the type of girl to tease a guy, but what else could it mean? She wasn't _interested _in him, you only had to look at her and then look at him to know _that_.

She was mad at Spencer. A horrible thought occurred to him. If she wanted to get back at Spencer, what better way than to make what he guessed you could call a pass at the guy Spencer most liked to bait? But no. Juliet wasn't like that. She just wasn't.

There had to be another explanation. Temporary insanity, Your Honor?

He gave up trying to sleep. There was no use. He went into the living room and turned on the TV and set it to the audio-visual input channel. He opened up the solid-front entertainment center in which he kept hidden his dirty little secrets, a Playstation2 and a Playstation3. He didn't have many games but the few he had were ones he enjoyed, not that he spent a great deal of time playing. He pulled his secret favorite from the line of neat cases and popped it into the proper machine. Spencer would have a field day with the knowledge that he liked fantasy role-play games, but he was willing to risk the teasing for _Dragon Age_. He had both _Origins_ and _Rise to Power_, with all the available downloadable content for both, and a reserve on the deluxe edition of the upcoming _Inquisition_, and he was not ashamed of the fact. _Origins_ remained his favorite, even though _Rise to Power _had slightly more interesting game mechanics, and that was what he popped in to the PS3.

He created a new character, a Human Noble Warrior, and played through the opening sequence in Highever castle. Around about the time his parents were killed, Lincoln came home.

Lincoln hesitated in the act of locking the door behind himself. "This is…unexpected," he said.

"What? I'm not allowed to unwind with mindless entertainment?" Lassiter said.

"It just seems a little out of character, although I remember you playing _Duck Hunt _on the Nintendo you bought for Lulu," Lincoln said. "And what are you doing up, anyway? Don't you have to work today?"

"Yes, but I couldn't sleep."

"So you play video games when you can't sleep?"

"Sometimes. What are you doing home? Didn't your date go well?"

"It went very well, thank you, but it was time to head home. You realize it's four-thirty in the morning, right?"

Lassiter saved his game, turned off the machine and TV, and stood up and stretched. "Just about time for my run."

"You're going for a run? After spending the night not sleeping?"

"Hey, I've gotta stay in shape."

"And what kind of _shape_ are you going to be in today? I for one would think you'd be sort of _Night of the Living Dead."_

"Lincoln, please. A little credit. I've spent the last twenty-plus years running on little sleep and a lot of coffee - and my life prior to that was characterized by little sleep and _no_ coffee. I have stamina to spare."

"Ever stop to consider that you've spent your whole life using yourself up quick?"

"I'm forty-five years old, and except for the way my blood pressure shoots up whenever I'm around Spencer, I'm healthy as a horse," Lassiter said. "Unless I get shot, I am highly unlikely to die young. Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary."

"I'm just saying, you might get a little more out of life if you worked a little less and played a little more. I'm not saying you have to, you know, become _me_, but a non-law enforcement related hobby or two, and a girlfriend, wouldn't be amiss."

"Yeah, I'm a _real_ hot prospect on the dating market," Lassiter said. "Women are just falling all over me."

"Detective O'Hara likes you," Lincoln said, and Lassiter looked at him sharply.

"She doesn't like me _that_ way, and I'll thank you to keep your mouth shut."

"Touchy, touchy. What is up with you, bro? You're all twitchy and nervous. Did something happen between you two last night? Is that why you couldn't sleep?"

Instinct - _powerful_ instinct - told him to keep quiet. But this was his brother, one of the very few people he trusted completely - apart from his everlasting big mouth, of course - and if there was one thing he knew about Lincoln, it was that he understood women a whole hell of a lot better than Lassiter did. He _might_…be able to help him sort this problem out.

"She wanted…to go for a drive," he said, the words yanked out of him as if by a chain fall. "You know, in the Stingray. She said we should run out to Los Padres, and then she wanted to watch the sunset."

"Yeah? And?" Lincoln said.

"I pulled the car over. She…put her…hand in my lap."

"Interesting. And?" Lincoln said.

Lassiter shook his head. "I mean _in _my lap. Like, _really_ in."

"Like, 'Oh, detective, your Glock is _so big' _in?"

"She - she didn't _say_ that, of course, but, yes, I guess so."

"And this is a bad thing because…?"

Lassiter sighed a sigh of sheer exasperation. "Because she doesn't want me. She was just…just…I don't know. Angry. Confused. Insane."

"Does she have a _history_ of mental illness?" Lincoln asked.

"No, of course not."

"Then what makes you say she was insane?"

"_Because she put her hand in my lap._ She even admitted she didn't know what she was doing."

"She knew what she was doing. What she may not have quite known was _why_ she was doing it, but clearly, the woman has some previously unexplored feelings for you. Being angry at, and presumably embarrassed by, her ass hat boyfriend earlier in the day probably brought those feelings a bit closer to the surface than she generally allows."

"_You're _out of your ever-lovin' mind."

"Look: she's your partner, right? And I'm guessing there are certain…_regulations_ against fraternization. So if she has any attraction to you at all - a given, I should say, given what she _did _- she's disposed to repress it, right? For the sake of her career."

"It's not strictly forbidden, but it is…strongly discouraged," Lassiter said, his mouth dry. He was thinking of his previous partner, Lucinda, who was transferred, possibly by her own choosing, when their relationship was outed by Spencer. "It can really mess up your career." Especially when you've only been partners a few months. A stupid mistake, but he was in a bad place, emotionally, at the time, and dammit, he'd needed…_something_ good. He never quite figured out why Lucinda wanted to be that something even for a short while. It wasn't as though she had actually seemed to like him a great deal. Honestly, she'd never really seemed to like _anyone_ a great deal.

Of course, maybe that was why they got along.

But Lincoln was talking again. "Right, exactly. So like I say, she's had to hold back on anything she's felt for you over the past eight years. But with her boyfriend being a premium grade assmunch, that's maybe easier said than done. Especially with you calling him out on it. It kind of sounds like the guy's a bit of a sexist, and hasn't been treating her with proper respect. She's _gotta_ feel that, if she has any self-respect at all."

Lassiter grunted. "One of the reasons Victoria threw me out is because she said I was sexist."

"That's not the CJ _I_ remember," Lincoln said. "You were always _chivalrous, _and _most_ women appreciate the difference. I bet Detective O'Hara does. Although I don't think you've let her see your chivalrous side, judging by how surprised she was when you helped her out of the car yesterday."

Lassiter shook his head. "You haven't been around, Lincoln. I've become…_seriously bitter. _Yeah, maybe that's _since _the divorce, but still, it's made me every bit as bad as Spencer, even if I'm not pig enough to slap a woman on the ass in a professional setting. I've told O'Hara to 'shut it' I don't know how many times, although when Spencer shouted 'Silence, Woman!' at her I wanted to throttle the bastard, even though he _did_ whisper a little apology afterward. Ha. She threatened to _shoot_ me, but she barely even glared at _him_. I don't know why the double-standard. And as to being chivalrous, if I were _chivalrous_ on the job, she'd hit me with an harassment suit. She already thought I was going to jump her because I had an affair with my last - "

"Partner? Were you going to say partner? Please, God, tell me it was a woman. Not that there's anything wrong with it if it wasn't, but I don't think I can take that kind of a shakeup to my world at four forty-five in the morning on a Monday."

"It was a woman, yes."

"Thank God. Althea is great, but frankly I think one 'coming out' per family is enough, please. At least of _immediate_ family."

"I don't swing that way, so set your mind at ease."

"Still, it kind of surprises me that they'd partner you up with another woman after that," Lincoln said. "Apparently they didn't see you as high risk of recidivism?"

"I think it more likely they didn't see O'Hara as giving me the time of day."

"Was your old partner a dog?"

"Please tell me you don't mean that literally," Lassiter said.

"No, I mean, was she ugly?"

"She was an attractive woman. Along the same lines as O'Hara only…not so…perky."

"Meaning…?"

Lassiter sighed. "Meaning they're both definitely former cheerleaders but while O'Hara was probably the type of cheerleader who had a smile and a good word for everybody and adopted nerds as charitable causes, Lucinda was more the bitchy cheerleader who sneered at everybody not in her particular clique, which just makes it all the more improbable that she ever gave _me_ the time of day."

He sighed again and shook his head. "Maybe she _was_ trying to advance her career through me. Don't know what she expected to achieve."

"Dude, why you gotta put yourself down like that? There's nothing wrong with you. A little overly serious, maybe, but you're a good-lookin' guy that just about any woman would at least _consider _romantically. And unless she's the type of woman who makes passes at guys regardless of whether she finds them sexually interesting or not, then clearly Detective O'Hara has been _considering_ you."

"Lincoln…"

"I'm telling you, man, this could only be a good thing for you. The light may be yellow right now, but this is one crazy circumstance where I think it might be gonna turn _green."_

"I…have to…go get ready for my run," Lassiter said, and fled into his bedroom.

. . .

. . . .

Juliet lay awake all night, tossing and turning. She tried telling herself it was because of the strange surroundings - she was in the guest room - but who was she trying to kid? _She_ knew why she couldn't sleep.

She just couldn't figure out why she'd done it, or why the very impulse hadn't freaked her right the hell out like it should have. And worst of all, she felt badly less about having _done_ it than the way Carlton was bound to _react _to it. He would shut down. The portcullis would go down, the drawbridge would go up, the alligators in the moat would be snapping their jaws, the archers would take up positions on the battlements, and men with pots of hot oil would prepare to rain down chaos. He would be _impenetrable._

Well, she would just have to lay siege, that was all. It was obvious that her relationship with her partner had taken some serious damage over the course of her relationship with Shawn, which pissed her off mightily, and she was not going to lose that partnership completely over a sexual miscue.

She wondered exactly why she thought of it as a miscue. Less the _wrong thing _to do and more the _wrong time _to do it. Sure, she found Carlton _attractive, _in his own unique way, she could admit to that. It was an empirical observation, nothing more. It didn't mean she wanted to maul him in the bullpen.

She groaned and flipped over onto her stomach as a mental image of her attacking Carlton at his desk invaded her mind. Okay, so he was a good-looking man. Okay, so he was really closer to her usual "type" than Shawn. And okay, if circumstances were different, if they weren't partners, she might - _might_ - have considered dating him. If he asked. Which he probably wouldn't.

Now wait a minute, _"probably wouldn't?" _Carlton was actually pretty brave when it came to putting his heart on the line. Not quite as brave as when putting his _life_ on the line, but every man has his Waterloo. If they weren't partners, if that prohibition - coupled with the outing of his previous relationship - didn't stand between them, and if he _wanted_ to go out with her, he would ask. If he wanted to.

She flipped over onto her back, staring up at the dark ceiling where the fan was just a vague shadow. It was pointless to think about this. They were _partners, _that's all there was to it; aside from the whole boyfriend issue, it was _the_ number one reason why what she'd done was a capital B capital I Bad Idea.

So why wouldn't this Bad Idea leave her head?

She could still feel the thrum of the Corvette's engine. God, she couldn't be that shallow, could she? To be seduced by a great car? Granted, it was a _seriously_ great car, the kind of car she'd happily _kill_ for. But that couldn't be the reason she'd crossed a major personal boundary. Hers _and_ Carlton's. So what, then? Maybe she'd done it because he'd lambasted her boyfriend. Shawn had clearly had it coming, and it was kind of nice, having someone stand up for her about Shawn's at times admittedly piggish behavior, but on the other hand, it kind of made her angry that Carlton seemed to doubt her self-respect. Although…maybe…just maybe…he had cause to. She had let Shawn get away with…quite a lot.

Way, way too much.

And there was the _other_ reason she couldn't sleep. Shawn. What was she going to do about Shawn?

They had danced around each other for so long, always just on the verge of…something. Although, thinking back, she could remember dozens of instances where he behaved just as piggishly as while they were dating, and didn't that mean she was an idiot for even _starting_ this relationship? God, they barely knew each other when he was giving her "psychic visions" of her and him and freaking _baby oil_. And somehow, she'd ended up _sleeping _with this pig. Was she an idiot, or just completely lacking in, oh, what now? _Self-respect._

But still…she couldn't break up with him. Not now. Because she'd never called him on it. The most she'd ever really done was roll her eyes at him. Now that it was out between them, that she felt disrespected and disregarded, she had to give him a chance to improve his behavior…didn't she?

Oh, God…she really, really had her doubts that anything would change.

But she had to give him a chance. Tomorrow after work she had to talk it out with him, put it all on the table, once and for all. Point out all the many…_many_ problems in their relationship and give him a chance…however unlikely…to fix things.

Shouldn't she be worried that she felt so pessimistic about this?

Oh, it was useless to try and sleep. She got up. She got her service weapon and her stopwatch and practiced disassembling and reassembling her weapon because yea verily, she was well-stressed, between Shawn and Carlton and Shawn and…Carlton…

Oh, God…the weapon was _not enough._ Maybe some music would calm her down.

She scanned through her Ipod but couldn't come up with anything she much wanted to hear. Her eye landed on the stack of CDs she'd brought back from Lassiter's. Well, what the hell? It maybe wasn't the best way to get her mind off of Carlton but frankly, he seemed like the lesser problem tonight. She grabbed a case at random from the stack, belatedly realizing that she had just that quickly destroyed whatever order Carlton had them in. He probably wouldn't like that much.

Struck with a perverse urge, she dashed out with her hand and knocked the stack over, then swirled the cases around on the table so they were all mixed up. She wasn't _quite_ sure why she did it, but it felt damned good, for some reason.

A faint smile curving her lips, she flipped open a crystal case and took out the CD inside. She popped it into the CD player in the clock radio by the bed and turned it on. The strains of an introduction began, and she was surprised to recognize it. It sounded like the music from Kid Rock's "All Summer Long." She _hated_ that song.

But when Zevon began to sing she knew it wasn't "All Summer Long." It was a song, oddly enough, about werewolves. In London. It still sounded vaguely like "All Summer Long," but she liked it a lot better, strange as the subject was. It reminded her of that crazy case they had where the guy thought he was turning into a werewolf because his psycho psychiatrist was drugging him and mauling animals and hunters with a taxidermied wolf skin.

The _next_ song reminded her of Shawn, and set her teeth on edge. At least, it reminded her of Shawn for the first few moments, before the subject of the song bit an usherette and raped and murdered his date to the junior prom, but she couldn't deny that Shawn was and would most likely always be an "excitable boy." She imagined Carlton listening to this song. It was actually a little hard to picture. Not that Carlton wasn't _dark_ enough - maybe it was a bit like the dead clown story.

The next song was dark, too. It seemed to be a theme with Zevon. The song after _that_ was about a headless mercenary, so yeah, dark. The next two songs were political, and then there was a song she kind of liked. It was slow and kind of gentle, at least at first.

"_I was sitting in the Hollywood Hawaiian Hotel, I was staring in my empty coffee cup. I was thinking that the gypsy wasn't lying. All the salty margaritas in Los Angeles, I'm gonna drink 'em up._

"_And if California slides into the ocean…like the mystics and statistics say it will…I predict this motel will be standin' until I've paid my bill."_

"_Don't the sun look angry through the trees? Don't the trees look like crucified thieves? Don't you feel like desperados under the eaves? Heaven help the one who leaves."_

Yeah…still kinda dark.

She kept listening, even though by now she knew what to expect. Eventually the CD wound through songs of varying degrees of darkness to a particularly raucous melody.

"_Well, I've seen _all_ there is to see, and I've heard _all_ they have to say. I've done everything I wanted to do...I've done that, too. And it ain't that pretty at all. Ain't that pretty at all. So I'm gon' hurl myself against the wall, 'cause I'd rather feel bad than not feel anything at all._

"_You know, I just had a short vacation, Roy. Spent it getting a root canal. _'Oh? How'd you like it?' _Well, it ain't that pretty at all. No, it ain't that pretty at all. So I'm gonna hurl myself against the wall, 'cause I'd rather feel bad than not feel anything at all._

"_Now, I'm gonna get a good running start and throw myself at the wall as hard as I can, man…_

"_I've been to Paris, and it' ain't that pretty at all. I've been to Rome… Guess what? I'd like to go back to Paris someday and visit the Louvre museum, get a good running start and hurl myself at the wall. Gonna hurl myself against the wall, 'cause I'd rather feel bad than feel nothing at all."_

Clearly, Warren Zevon had some sympathy with the jaded outlook. And possibly, that was the draw for Carlton. Certainly there was something about the lyric that reminded her of him - she'd seen him hurl himself metaphorically at the wall many, many times.

The green LED on the clock radio said it was five o'clock. Juliet turned off the CD player and got ready for her morning run.

* * *

**A/N:** Even in my head, it's something of a reach to make Lassiter a fan of even _select_ video games, but he _did_ enjoy the Wii in that Christmas episode in the second season - "Gus's Dad May Have Killed an Old Guy." It was really just a chance for me to bring in my other major fandom, _Dragon Age_. Fun fact: Two _Dragon Age _voice actors have appeared in _Psych_. "Arl Howe"/Tim Curry (Nigel St. Nigel from "American Duos") and "Alistair"/Steve Valentine (Billy Lipps in "100 Clues"). And yes, I did squee like a little girl in both instances (granted, there are other reasons to squee for Tim Curry). If "Loghain Mac Tir"/Simon Templeman had ever appeared, I would have soiled myself. You didn't need to know that.

Songs referenced or exerpted were "Werewolves of London," "Excitable Boy," "Play it All Night Long," "Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner," "Desperados Under the Eaves," and "Ain't That Pretty At All." The reference to Shawn saying "Silence Woman!" is from the episode "Deez Nups," which according to the universe I have created, never happened, so just imagine that he found some other place to say it, because it really pissed me off, apology or no.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. May contain spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: Cards on the Table**

It was as bad as she'd feared. When Juliet came into the station that morning Lassiter was already at his desk, shields up, phasers set to kill, photon torpedoes armed. He glanced at her as she approached his desk, went rigid, and began typing something into his computer as though there were nothing more important in the world. She plopped the second cup of coffee she carried on the edge of his blotter.

"For you," she said.

His eyes flicked from the computer screen to hers, and he nudged the other cup of coffee that sat on his blotter with a finger.

"I already have coffee," he said.

"Well, now you have two," she said.

"Er…thank…you?"

She nodded, happy. It was a start. "You're welcome."

He looked back at his computer, but when she didn't move from beside his desk he looked back, eyes wide and manner brittle. "Is there…something else?" he asked.

"Have lunch with me today?" she said.

It was his turn to nod, slowly and with great - almost mock - deliberation. "Okay, sure. This is something you need to ask at eight oh-five in the morning?"

"Today? _Yes," _she said, with great - _decidedly_ mock - deliberation. "Because you are in Full-Panic Mode. You're shutting down. And at lunch, there _Will Be Talk_. Which you will not want to do. But you will. Because I said so."

"O'Hara. There is _nothing_ to talk about."

"_Yes, _Carlton, there _is," _she said. "Everything we should have talked about last night, but we put off to go for a drive. We need to talk about _us_, about our partnership, our friendship, and how we get back to the _kick-ass _team we used to be. _That's_ what there is to talk about."

"_Just _that? Nothing…else?"

"_Nothing _else." Again, a little voice in her head chimed in, _For now._

"Fine. We'll…talk."

She nodded again, quite happy that he was willing at least to open a dialogue, and went back to her desk. Carlton had brought her in on what Shawn insisted on calling the "Squashed Head Case," actually the murder of ex-con Julio Gutierrez, but there was a frustrating lack of leads. The vehicle used in the commission of the murder, a 1978 Champion motor home, was stolen from a used dealer's lot in Carpinteria and CSUs hadn't found much evidence inside it: no fingerprints that didn't belong to lot workers, no hair samples that didn't look to be from the same. It was _clean. _Except for the blood and hair of the victim on the front driver's side tire and splashed on the undercarriage. Even Shawn hadn't been able to divine much of anything. He claimed the vehicle had been "psychically expunged." He _had_ "sensed" that the killer was rather short, perhaps five-six or so, but Lassiter and O'Hara already figured as much, judging from where the driver's side captain's chair was positioned in relation to the steering wheel and the pedals. Shawn tended to forget that they actually were quite good at their jobs.

It was a frustrating case. With a murder weapon as big and obvious as an RV, you'd think there'd be a _witness_ or two. If not of the murder itself, then of the subsequent dumping of the blood-spattered vehicle. They were slowly combing through Gutierrez' known associates and family, looking for info, but so far, nothing was clicking.

They had other cases to occupy their time while they hoped for an informant with a new lead to come forward. There was a jewelry store robbery on State Street, and a fatal and non-fatal double shooting in an alley off of West Montecito. Both cases far more promising, at the current time, in terms of hope of eventual arrest. And as always, there was plenty of paperwork to do.

So the time 'til lunch was well-filled, if not exactly nail-bitingly interesting at all points, and finally they had a chance to break away at around about noon. They grabbed sandwiches, chips, and drinks from a little deli down the block from the station and went to the beach to eat on Lassiter's usual bench. Juliet didn't even expostulate when he flashed his badge at the young couple that was already sitting there and ran them off.

Carlton reached into the paper bag he carried and pulled out one of the sandwiches. A glance at the wrapper revealed the notation "XBAC XPIC" scribbled on it in thick black crayon. He handed the sandwich over to Juliet. "Extra bacon, extra pickles; that's yours."

"Thank you," she said, and unwrapped it. He passed over her bag of sea salt and vinegar chips and she handed him his Coke. He stuck the cup between his knees and popped open his bag of sour cream and cheddar chips. He unwrapped his own sandwich, a roast beef with mozzarella on toasted Italian bread, no toppings. He didn't typically eat work lunches that had a propensity to create even the _slightest_ of a mess.

"How can you stand to eat a sandwich with no toppings? Not even a little mayo?" Juliet asked.

"I don't need to be assaulted with flavor at _all_ hours of the day, O'Hara," he said. "And I prefer Miracle Whip anyway."

"Oh, you're one of _those_ people," Juliet said.

He put his sandwich down and turned his head to stare at her. "One of _those_ people?" he said.

Juliet laughed. "I'm kidding, Carlton. Because of the commercials. There's nothing wrong with liking Miracle Whip. But seriously, we need to talk."

"Nng. Can't we at least eat first?"

"We have a lot to talk about, Carlton. We may not have time if we eat first."

"This kind of conversation does not seem conducive to digestion."

"Well, suck it up," Juliet said, and something amazing happened.

Carlton Lassiter…_flinched._

That was amazing because in eight years, Juliet O'Hara had never seen Carlton Lassiter _flinch_. She'd seen him _wince_, in the facial expression sense, but_ flinching_…he simply did not do. She had been certain he didn't know how. And what made him flinch now? The phrase _"suck it up?"_ He'd looked like he was expecting a blow.

Peculiar, to say the least.

"Carlton, what…what's wrong?" she asked. "All I said was 'suck it up,' and you looked like I came at you with a knife. Except if I _had_, you wouldn't have looked that way. You'd have drawn your service weapon and shouted at me to drop the knife."

"Nothing, O'Hara. Just…just talk, if you're gonna."

"Okay." She took a bite of her sandwich, chewed, and swallowed, then chased it with a sip of her Dr. Pepper. "I feel that…my relationship with Shawn…has damaged our partnership _as well as _our friendship, and I want to fix things."

"Fine. Partnership fixed. Good talk. Moving on." He took a huge bite out of his own sandwich.

"_Carlton."_

He swallowed. "O'Hara. What? You want to be what we used to be? We're not those people anymore. Time moved on. All we can be is what we'll be going forward. You want it to be _better_ than what we've left behind? I'm all up for that."

"Okay, yes, you're right. But Carlton, if I'm going to improve things on _my _side going forward, I need to know just exactly how you've felt on _your _side in the past."

He popped a chip into his mouth and crunched aggressively. "I'm not going to tell you about my _feelings_, O'Hara," he said, even before he swallowed.

"Oh come on, Carlton, what are you afraid of? Losing your _Man Card?" _Juliet said.

"Well, you know what? Maybe I am," he said.

"Just…tell me what the worst thing was," Juliet said. "What bothered you most? Was it just that I was with Shawn in particular, or was there something else?"

He sighed and ate another chip, chewing it thoroughly and swallowing before he spoke again. "O'Hara, if it made you happy, I wouldn't care if you dated a vegan democrat second amendment abolitionist harp-playing homeless mime. I couldn't care less that it was Spencer in particular…at least if it made you happy."

"Carlton. I recall a polygraph examination that tells me _you're lying."_

"I am not lying. I was upset that you didn't tell me you were dating Spencer, because we all work together and that's kind of an important thing to know. Because you're my _partner_ and I thought I could trust you in every way but it turned out that you were _lying_ to me. If you had just told me that you and Spencer had started dating I wouldn't have been upset. I might have been _catty, _I'm not going to try and convince you I wouldn't be, but I wouldn't be upset."

"Carlton. I _know_ you. You would have been upset."

He bit into his sandwich and chewed with a reflective expression on his face. He swallowed and sipped his soda again.

"Yeah, maybe you're right. I would have been upset, a little, because I did not, do not, and never will think Spencer is good enough for you. But I wouldn't have been _hurt, _and I wouldn't have been _angry_. You going behind my back, that made me hurt and that made me angry. I'd like to quote Meat Loaf in this instance, O'Hara: 'The next time you stab me in the back, you'd better do it to my face.'"

Juliet put down her sandwich and stared at her knees for a minute without seeing them. Then she looked at him. "Did you really feel like I stabbed you in the back?"

"You lied to me. It was a lie of omission, but it was a lie nevertheless."

And Carlton, poor, damaged Carlton, didn't give his trust to just anybody. If he really had trusted her completely, like he said - and she had no reason to think he was lying about that - then she had broken that hard-won trust. And she wouldn't get it back easily.

Her eyes were burning now. She blinked rapidly, trying to compose herself. To cover, she asked, "What song is that line from?"

"'Love is Not Real,' off the _Hang Cool Teddy Bear _album that came out a few years ago."

"You know your music, Carlton."

"I'm not an idiot savant about it, like Spencer."

"Still, you seem to have a far wider base of knowledge than I would have expected."

He shrugged. "I like music. Most people do, to some extent. My tastes may be slightly more varied than is typical." He bit into his sandwich again.

"Which is _not _what I would have expected. You've got a few surprises in you, Carlton."

"Are we on to the subject of music, now? Because I would rather _not talk_, if it's all the same."

She shook her head. "That was just an observation, not a subject change. Carlton. I know I broke your trust in me, and I'm sorry. I'm going to work hard to earn back that trust. I will never…stab you in the back again."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," he muttered.

"_Carlton."_

"_O'Hara," _he mocked. He sounded rather angry now. "How many times have you lied to me for Spencer's sake? How many times have you helped him sneak around behind my back? Contrary to what Spencer says, I'm not _stupid _or a _bad detective. _Are you telling me that's all going to stop now? Because I really would love to believe that."

"I _never -" _She broke off, because suddenly she remembered _multiple_ instances, some dating back to before she and Shawn ever started dating. Each time, if he only knew of them, like a tiny little knife in her partner's back. She'd told herself each time that she did it in the name of closing the case, that she did it to counteract Carlton's close-mindedness about Shawn's gifts, but really, what she did…helping Shawn uncover _real, visible _evidence that she and Carlton probably could have found on their own, if perhaps not quite as quickly…wasn't it really just helping Shawn undercut Carlton so he could _beat_ him in their little unfriendly competition? And how did each man approach that competition? Didn't Carlton seem to simply want to prove that _he_ could solve cases by following police procedure and protocol while Shawn seemed more determined to prove that _he _could solve what Carlton was, if Shawn was to be believed, incapable of?

In a competition like that, whose side should she be on? Whose side did she _want_ to be on?

Of course, there were many times when she took Carlton's side over Shawn's. She respected her partner and trusted his skill, even though she knew he could be completely wrongheaded - and damned stubborn about it - from time to time. But those times when she'd turned Shawn down in favor of her partner had happened less and less often since she started dating the psychic.

"Carlton, I…never realized what I was doing. I'm…sorry. I didn't have your back. As your partner, that's inexcusable."

He put his sandwich down. "I don't…need you to…follow my lead at all times. I know I have a blind spot regarding Spencer. I _know _that. He solves cases by going outside the law. I know _that_, too. Hell, if _I_ could get away with it, I'd do the same damn thing, although I don't know why everyone else in the world is held to restrictions and consequences from which Spencer is exempt. Just don't…_hide_ things from me. If Spencer gets you to run a name for him, I won't get pissed off if you just _tell_ me. If I get…unreasonable…just call me on it. I know it may not seem like it all the time, O'Hara, but I _listen_ to you."

"I know that, Carlton," she said, in a quiet voice. She was staring at her knees again, but she looked up. "So, if I promise to be honest with you about all my dealings with Shawn from now on, you really won't be mad anymore that I'm with him?"

"The hell I won't be, O'Hara. He treats you like shit."

"That's a little harsh, Carlton. There are some things about our relationship that need improving, but he does _not_ treat me like shit."

"The hell he doesn't. He treats you exactly the way he treats everything else in his life, like something that exists solely for his amusement. Like an object. And you _let_ him, which I just don't get. No one could ever say that you're not a strong woman, O'Hara, but where's your strength where Spencer is concerned? You just seem to fold up like origami."

That nettled her. "How can you _say_ that - " she began, but he cut her off aggressively.

"Don't deny it, O'Hara. Do you know what you two together remind me of? A couple in a TV sitcom. Your every action written out for you by a bunch of middle-aged men who didn't get a lot of action in high school and want to vicariously live out the fantasy of being able to be a massive, immature _prick_ and still get the hot, smart girl. Real life shouldn't work that way, O'Hara. It doesn't work that way for _me. _No woman looks at me twice when I act that way. And that's _good. _Because I shouldn't act that way around a woman. I should be respectful and considerate and at least make an _effort_ to curb all the little quirks and peccadilloes that combine to make me so goddamned screwed up. It should be the same for Spencer. He doesn't get a free pass just because he says so. Especially not from _you_. You are _too good _for that, O'Hara. You are too much your _own woman _to abnegate your sense of self for the sake of his ego. I know he's cute. I know he can be sweet. But he's not nearly cute or sweet enough to make up for all the ways he treats you like his latest and greatest _toy."_

Tears burned her eyes again. "But you said if I were happy…" she began.

"_Yes, _O'Hara, _if you were happy," _he said. "If you _are_ happy then tell me to shove off. If you're happy, then it's none of my business what your relationship looks like on the outside. If you're happy with Spencer, if you can look me in the eyes and tell me truthfully that you are, with no doubts, no hesitations, then by God, O'Hara, I'll walk you down the frickin' aisle _myself _if you ask me to. But from where I stand, O'Hara? I just don't see it. You don't look happy to me. You look frustrated most of the time. Angry, even. Embarrassed, often. But I _don't see happy."_

She looked down at the remains of her sandwich, hard to see through the tears in her eyes. She sat there for some little time, fighting a losing battle against the urge to cry, and finally she wadded up her leftovers in the white paper wrapper and stuffed it into her half-eaten bag of chips. She grabbed this in one hand and her soda in the other and stood up.

"I…I have to go back to the station," she said. "I forgot something."

"I won't apologize for calling it like I see it, O'Hara," he said, and the anger had drained out of his voice and now he just sounded kind of sad. "You deserve better, and that's the God's honest truth."

She hesitated in the sand a moment, but then, "Goodbye, Carlton," she said, in a hushed voice, and walked back the way they'd come.


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. May contain spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

**A/N: **Kind of a short chapter, but me had heap big funs with Sgt. Allen, yes indeedy.

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen: Restroom Motivation**

Lassiter finished his lunch in slow motion: bite of sandwich, chew, swallow, slurp of Coke, swallow, crunch a chip, chew, swallow, lather rinse repeat. He had no appetite for any of it anymore, and could barely taste it, but focusing on the mechanical processes of eating kept his mind from dwelling on what very likely was the end of his best and longest-lasting partnership. Juliet was probably asking Vick for a new partner right this second, and if she had tears in her eyes while she was asking, she'd likely get what she wanted.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to regret a word he'd said. Replaying that conversation in his mind as he wadded up white paper and stuffed it in his empty chip bag, he thought he'd managed to say what he had to say while remaining remarkably calm. Meaning he got only about half as angry and as loud as he really wanted to. Juliet becoming…a _lesser_ version of herself, as he'd seen over the past two years, pissed him off righteously, possibly more than anything had _ever_ pissed him off in his entire pissed off life. Spencer wasn't _abusive_, if he was, he'd be in the morgue, but he had seemingly consumed Juliet's life and self in the same way an abusive man consumed the life and self of his victim. And Juliet was no victim, ordinarily.

If she was _happy_, then it was all right. If she had…consumed _herself_, voluntarily, because she loved him and he made her happy, then it was all right. It was her choice. Lassiter hadn't lied: he'd walk her down the aisle himself rather than hurt her with his continued anger and, yes, jealousy. But if she was happy, _really_ happy, she hid it well.

Maybe she'd think about what he said, while she worked with her new partner, and maybe she'd come to a realization somewhere down the line. Maybe she wouldn't dump Spencer, the dumb bastard, but maybe she'd take back a little of her old mojo. That would be good to see.

He knew he had his moments when the bitterness he felt in the wake of his divorce welled up and overwhelmed him with spite he couldn't help directing at _all_ women, but typically, as far as he was concerned, there was nothing wrong _at all _with a woman who stood up for herself, made her own way, told the men where they could shove it, and fought like a wildcat for the respect she deserved. O'Hara was that kind of woman…before Spencer. Spencer had a…_big_…personality, downright _overwhelming_, really, but surely O'Hara had the strength to push back just enough to…to…to be _herself_. And _herself _was so amazing, why would she ever want to be otherwise?

He took one last long draw on his Coke, which burbled through the straw noisily since he was down to the dregs, and got up and tossed everything into the nearby trash barrel. He was late, and for the first time in his life, he didn't care.

. . .

. . . .

Juliet stood in the first-floor ladies bog, staring in the mirror and watching tears streak silently down her cheeks.

A toilet flushed behind her, and Sergeant Allen opened one of the stall doors, hesitated on her way to the sinks, and came to stand next to her, washing her hands and glaring at Juliet's maudlin reflection in the wall-sized mirror.

"All right, what did that silly shit do this time?" she asked.

"Wh - pardon?" Juliet said.

"Shawn. What did he do?"

_He made me lose my partner's respect,_ Juliet thought.

And then, _No, he didn't…_I_ did._

"Why would you think Shawn's to blame?" she asked.

Allen rolled her eyes, shaking her head so that her gaudy crystal and feather earrings swung. "Honey, only two men I know can mess you up, and _one_ of those men can be counted on to stop just _short_ of makin' you cry."

"Shawn has never made me cry," she said.

"_Honey," _Allen said again, with particular emphasis. "I'm not the only one who saw you come out of this ladies room with your eyes all red and puffy after he shoved your daddy back into your life. Lassiter, insensitive as he may be, would never do something like that to you."

She choked back the sudden sob that tried to escape her throat. Under ordinary circumstances, Carlton _would_ never make her cry, but under ordinary circumstances he didn't have to point out just how far down her evolutionary ladder she'd slipped. That little jab about the TV sitcom still poked at her. She'd always _hated_ the way so many women behaved on television, like robot puppies designed solely to follow men around. Brainless walking punch lines. Sex toys.

If Carlton was to be believed - no, he _was _to be believed - she'd become just that.

It was bad enough to cry silently in front of Sergeant Allen, who was the biggest gossip in the station, but now she couldn't stop herself from breaking down completely into noisy sobs. Allen wrapped her arms around her shoulders and patted her back.

"Honey, whatever happened, it's going to be okay," she said, cooing softly as a dove. "You know…you think…it might just be time to tell the boy to move along down the road?"

Juliet hitched in a breath. _"Shawn?" _she said. "I thought you _adored_ Shawn."

"I do. He's a sweet boy, and he can talk to my grandmama and everything. But he's a _boy, _and honey, I don't see him gettin' any older."

"Well, _Shawn_ didn't make me cry," she said, through her continuing tears. _"Carlton _did."

"Lassiter? What about? 'Cause sweetie, if there is one person on the face of this _planet _that Carlton J. Lassiter doesn't want crying, it's you."

"H-he…he told me…that I let Shawn disrespect me. That I've become someone…_unworthy _of respect."

Allen's dark eyes popped open wide, almost bugging out of her head. "He said _that?"_

"Not…in so many words. But it's what he meant."

Allen shook her head. "Nuh uh, now I just don't believe that at all. What did he say exactly? Because Carlton Lassiter ain't really a 'read between the lines' kinda fella, honey, he's much too blunt. What he _said_ is probably exactly what he meant."

"He said I've become like a woman in a TV sitcom, following the stage directions written out for me by some middle aged guys living in fantasy land."

Allen winced. "Blunt, all right. But sugar, I don't see where that says you're _unworthy_ of respect. More like he thinks you should stand up and _demand_ it, like you used to."

It was Juliet's turn for her eyes to pop open wide. "You…you think I've lost my self-respect, too?"

Allen bared her straight, white teeth in a grimace. "Where Shawn Spencer is concerned…yeah, honey, at least a little. I mean, just the other day, when Lassiter's brother visited the station for the first time, I saw you let Shawn pinch you on the ass right there in the hallway, and that don't count all the times I've heard from other uniforms that you've let him get away with that kind of thing at crime scenes. That's bedroom behavior, sweetie, not _workplace_ behavior. You shoulda smacked him down for that a long time ago."

Juliet sniffled. "Oh God…I _have_ lost my self-respect."

"Seems to me what Lassiter was trying to tell you to kick ass and take names like you used to do. Like you did when you were in those woods with the Bigfoot filmmakers and those Serbians were shooting at you. _That_ was the Juliet O'Hara that the SBPD knows and loves, and we hadn't seen her in quite awhile at that point."

"You saw that tape?" Juliet asked.

"Honey, Shawn showed everybody, a dozen times. He swore up and down he was going to win some stupid student award for it, even though he ain't never been a college student. You wanna know what _else _we saw in that tape that we ain't really seen in awhile?"

Juliet wasn't sure she wanted to know. "What?" she asked.

"We saw how much you care about your partner. Now, I know he's a man, and men don't generally 'get' feelings, and he's _that man _in particular, so he likes to pretend he doesn't _have_ feelings in the first place, but in case you haven't noticed it in your tenure here, Detective, I'll point it out to you: Carlton Lassiter is the most _feeling_ person you're ever likely to meet. And I know he's felt it that you haven't _been there _for him quite as well as a partner should be since you started seein' Shawn. Friendships suffer when romance is in the air, of course it does, but honey, your work relationship with your _partner_ never should have been touched. He should have come first. He definitely did out there in the woods and no mistake about it. But it should hold just as true on the streets of Santa Barbara. He's always got _your _back. Honey, that man would _die_ for you, in a heartbeat."

"I know that," Juliet said. She was coming out of her crying jag now, calming down. "I know he would. And I would die for him. I can't believe I ever acted like that wasn't true. I can't believe I ever let what I have with Shawn affect the best partnership of my life."

"Now that you know what went wrong, you gonna fix it?" Allen asked, jabbing a sparkling silver-painted fingernail (O.P.I's "Lucerne-tainly Look Marvelous" - she had every color they produced) into Juliet's lapel.

Juliet nodded firmly. "Yes. Yes, I'm…I'm going to fix this. I'm going to earn back Carlton's trust, his respect, and be the _kick-ass _partner he deserves."

"And you're gonna do this…_for you," _Allen said. "Because _kick-ass _is just what you _are."_

"Right. _Right."_

Sergeant Allen clenched a fist and shook it in a symbol of empowerment. "You're gonna _take back your pride."_

"Right. _Right."_

Allen's voice took on the fervor of a preacher or a motivational speaker. "Because Juliet O'Hara is a _firecracker. _And that's the way the people who love her _need her to be_. A woman who stood toe to toe with her senior partner from the day she was assigned, a man who the rest of the station referred to as _Darth Lassiter_. A woman who used her sunny personality against him until Darth Lassiter, the Unbreakable Wall, _cracked_. A woman who became his equal and earned his respect without ever sacrificing her sense of self. A _role model _to young women everywhere."

"Patricia, I could kiss you!" Juliet said, and did.

"Enough of that, girl! Get on out there and get to work!" Allen said, and Juliet slapped five with her before giving herself a quick prink in the mirror and bouncing out the door.

Sergeant Allen turned back to the mirror and primped a little herself. "I always wanted to do that for someone," she said out loud to herself.


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. May contain spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen: Learning to Flinch**

When Lassiter walked into the SBPD that afternoon, it was with the full expectation that everything would have changed while he was finishing up his unhurried lunch. Juliet would have a new partner, or at least would be in the process of getting a new partner, Chief Vick would call him into the office to berate him for upsetting O'Hara, and might even demote him. For rampaging tactlessness. A chronic condition, with him.

He was startlingly unworried about it. If he lost his position he had it coming. Unloading on O'Hara like that…it was uncalled for. Even if he couldn't quite bring himself to regret what he'd said.

She was a kind-hearted woman. Sooner or later she'd forgive him for it. She might not ever be able to be friends, real friends, with him again because she knew better than anyone what kind of ass he was and always would be, but she'd forgive him and she'd be friendly toward him. Kind. Because that's who she was. And he, being who he was, quite possibly the most pathetic man on the face of the planet, would be pathetically grateful to have just that much of her attention.

But the fact remained, he'd burned a bridge today. One he really couldn't afford to burn. His next therapy session would be heap big fun, obviously. That damned shrink would be all so very interested to hear him rationalize what he'd done. Why he'd felt the need to do it. Well, Juliet had wanted him to talk. Guess she got what she wanted.

As he walked into the station he expected to be on the receiving end of a lot of dirty looks. Juliet was well-liked by everyone from the Chief to the janitor, while he was no one's favorite coworker. If word had gotten out that Juliet was upset and he was the cause, then the stink-eye was the best he could expect from everybody, up to and including McNab, for the rest of the day - minimum. But clearly word had not yet circulated, because no one much paid any attention to him, and a few people actually nodded as he passed. At Booking, Sergeant Allen actually _smiled_ at him while she gave him a slow, conspiratorial nod, as if they were in cahoots about something. As if he'd ever been in cahoots with anyone about anything.

Puzzled, he strode into the bullpen and to his desk, still fully expecting the Chief to call him into her office as he passed. She was in there, but she didn't even look up from her phone call. Judging from the smile on her face, she was talking to her husband or her daughter. He'd "met" Iris a few times at station gatherings, like the annual picnic or the occasional softball game, but she always hid behind her mother or father's legs and peered out at him like some timid wild animal so he'd never done more than smile nervously in her direction and wave his fingers at her.

Not that he'd ever expected to make friends with his boss's child, but after having held her at birth it would be nice if he could feel less like the monster peeking out from inside the closet in her presence. And worst of all, Iris didn't seem to be afraid of anyone else. She told knock-knock jokes to O'Hara and at the most recent department picnic she'd gotten a view of the world from atop McNab's shoulders. She wasn't shy. There was just something wrong with _him._

He just had women-troubles from all directions and all age demographics.

He sat down at his desk and abstractedly ruffled his hair - a clear sign of nerves, since he had to work to tame the many cowlicks to which he was prone - and signed in to his computer. Coffee. Coffee would be good. No, strike that, coffee would be _great_. Coffee was essential. He got up and looked for his favorite mug - "Shoot first and ask questions later," it read - but it wasn't where he'd left it. He grabbed his other mug - "Real detectives do it with a chalk outline" - and headed for the coffee pot.

O'Hara intercepted his trajectory. Her eyes were red and slightly puffy but her smile was bright and didn't look forced. She held his mug - his favorite mug - out to him, filled to the brim with steaming black joe. "I knew you'd be needing this," she said.

"Thank you," he said, still a little abstractedly, the emotions below the surface not quite catching up to his remote exterior - confusion, mostly, for the moment. O'Hara looked…perky. Like she'd been crying, yes, but…like she was very much over that. Like she had come out from under a rain cloud to find the golden sun. A froufrou thought, coming from him.

"You are very welcome, Carlton," she said, and turned sharply, with a bit of a flounce, and returned to her desk. Lassiter returned to his, rubbing the back of his head, wondering just what was going on. He liked seeing O'Hara in a good mood, but he didn't trust this one. Maybe she was planning on shooting him in the back? He left himself open for it. If she'd had it with him to that extent then he had it coming.

He sat down again, nervous and jumpy, waiting for the axe to fall, but it seemed he'd been granted a stay of execution. O'Hara poured over case files at her desk and Chief Vick ignored him. Evidently…O'Hara hadn't said anything about being upset. She'd just…put it behind her.

Granted, the woman was damned good at forgiving - she'd forgiven him asshole behavior time and again over the years, and Spencer got away with pure murder in her eyes - but could that really be all there was to it?

His luck never ran that way.

Maybe he should start crafting an apology before she really _did_ shoot him in the back.

. . .

. . . .

Juliet didn't get much opportunity over the rest of the day to prove she could be the kick-ass cop, the strong, self-reliant woman she used to be, because they spent the rest of the afternoon reviewing evidence and case files - not much opportunity to shine. But that was okay, because she had a plan now, and it didn't matter how long it took for that plan to come to fruition.

She went home that night to find Shawn nowhere in evidence. Most likely he was out somewhere playing with Gus, despite the fact that the lawn needed mowing and she'd asked him several times to take care of that since he didn't have any cases at the moment. She sighed, but in truth she was slightly relieved. It was nice to have a quiet moment to breathe and put the work day behind her before she had to give Shawn "the Talk." The _relationship _talk. The "can I just please get you to hold up _your end _of this relationship" talk.

She made herself a lonely little supper of a single-serving cup of Bob Evans' macaroni and cheese and a Dr. Pepper. She waited up 'til nearly ten thirty, but then, tired, she went to bed in the guest room, locking the door behind her. It would not keep Shawn out if he were determined to get in, but at least it would slow him down a little bit, and what a horrible thought to have about your boyfriend.

She was angry with him. He knew she wanted to have an "us" talk, and she knew he had purposely avoided her. There was no way she was sleeping in the same bed with him tonight. As she snuggled down into the warm mattress and thick comforter, she missed having someone warm and cozy to cuddle with. Not Shawn, Shawn wasn't a cuddler. Outside of sex, he was very little about physical intimacy, which unfortunately included foreplay. A smack on the butt was his idea of being intimate. It wasn't hers.

She started to drift, but her thoughts were still fairly clear. _Carlton_ would be a cuddler, she thought. For all his stand-off-don't-touch-me-ness she knew he would welcome closeness and intimacy from someone he loved and trusted. He might even be a bit too needy for some women, like perhaps Victoria. She didn't know half the reasons why the marriage had ended, but she could imagine that Carlton's affection and protectiveness could be somewhat suffocating if you weren't used to it, and judging from Victoria's father, she wasn't much used to affection. Of course, the _opposite _could be true, that he'd been too distant with her, too wrapped up in work. Somehow, Juliet thought that _both_ were probably the case, that he was gone much of the time but was smothering when he was around.

Carlton needed someone who would understand his dedication to his work and wouldn't mind his intense drive to _take care of them_. Someone who would, and this was critical, _take care of Carlton _in return. Juliet knew he didn't get much of that in his life. He _needed_ it. Needed to know he _mattered_ to someone for more than what he brought to the police force.

She should make an effort to find him someone. She'd tried once before, of course, but not very hard. He was tall, good-looking in an unconventional way, with killer blue eyes and a heartbreaking smile, when he took it out of mothballs. She had friends, who had friends, who had friends, and somewhere in that pool was a woman who would be _thrilled_ to be loved by Carlton Lassiter.

Juliet was too nearly asleep to be alarmed by the part of her that realized _she_ would be thrilled to be loved by Carlton Lassiter, and drifted off to sweet dreams of his killer eyes and heartbreaking smile.

. . .

. . . .

Juliet's alarm clock went off at four thirty in the morning. She woke up next to Shawn, laying on his side turned away from her, mouth open and snoring, oblivious to the wake-up call. His presence, meaning he had, indeed, picked the lock on the door, made her insensibly angry. What more hint did a man need that a woman wanted - nay, _needed_ - her space?

She sat up, grabbed a buckwheat pillow, and began to beat him about the head with it.

"Wake up! Wake up, wake up, wake _up!"_

"Wha - ? Joosh - ? Hey! Jules! What the - what are you doing?"

"The door was _locked, _Shawn! Take a fucking hint!"

"Jules! Ow! Hey! I thought you - I thought you were trying…to keep the cats out!"

"_The cats? _I don't _need_ to lock the door to keep the cats out, Shawn. _They_ respect boundaries a little better than that! Get up! Get _up!"_

He got up. He was completely naked.

"_Shawn. _What? Did you think that the sight of your pasty, increasingly bloated body was going to melt me? Put your damn clothes on!"

"_Increasingly bloated? _What the hey?"

"You don't take care of yourself, Shawn. It's as simple as that. When is the last time you did a workout? When is the last time you ate a healthy meal instead of something deep fried, battered, rolled in nacho cheese, and composed predominantly of sugar?"

"All at once?"

"Uh, hello? Does anybody else remember the _deep fried Snickers bars _you ate at the Fajita Festival? _Six _of them? And let's not even discuss how many _fajitas_ you ate. My God, Shawn, you're going to need a triple bypass before you ever hit forty-five. What worries me most is that it looks like you've already had one!"

The fingers of his left hand moved to stroke the faded scar bisecting his almost hairless chest while he smiled nervously. "What, this? This isn't…it wasn't a…I never had a bypass."

"Well, whatever it's from, you'd think you'd want to do just about anything to keep from having your chest cut open _again."_

"You know, it's…kind of an…unspoken thing…'we don't talk about the scar,'" he said, with a false joking note in his voice.

"I don't _need _to talk about the scar, Shawn. But the fact of the matter is, it's there, and it indicates something pretty severe, whether it was trauma or illness. So I'm _worried about you_, Shawn. I don't want you to be unhealthy."

"If you're worried about me, why do you sound so _angry?" _Shawn asked.

"Because I _am_ angry, Shawn. It doesn't preclude me from caring."

"But what I don't understand is _why_ you're angry. Okay, so it wasn't the most _romantic_ proposal in the universe, but I _meant_ it. I _love_ you, Jules. I love…_us._ And _you_ love us. We're the perfect couple. Whatever you think our problems are, they're small potatoes, easily fixed. Lassy just got you all upset, because he's lonely and bitter and, frankly, I think he has the hots for you."

She pulled back her hand to slap him and he flinched away from her defensively. "Don't you dare," she said, fervently. "Don't you dare denigrate him or what he might feel. I'm going to tell you something, Shawn. Any woman should be _honored_ to be cared for by a man as loyal and dependable and _caring_ as Carlton Lassiter. And we? Are _far_ from the perfect couple. We're barely a couple at all. Couples share things, Shawn. Especially when they live together. They share expenses, living space, responsibilities…I can't even get you to mow the fucking _lawn, _Shawn. You know I work long hours. When you don't have a case to solve, which is _frequent_, you don't have much to do except play. You could pull out the goddamn mower and be useful: it would take you, what, half an hour? And give you a little exercise, of which you're in pretty sore need, Shawn. And don't think I don't know that the few big things you've shelled out money for, like that weekend getaway we took, were actually paid for by _Gus_. Does the man have any fucking credit _left_ after you're done with him? I can't imagine why he puts up with it."

"Lassy? Caring? Jules, you've totally lost it. That man doesn't care about doodly _squat."_

She shook her head, her lips curved in a humorless smile. "Oh Shawn, you know so much, and yet so very little. Did anything I said after that point register with you? Did you hear me at all?"

"Yes, I heard you. You want me to mow the lawn. I will, Jules, I will. There's no reason to be so upset."

"It's _not_ about the lawn, Shawn. It's about _responsibility_. It's about _respect_. It's about you putting something _in_ to this relationship rather than just taking what you can get from it. Do you understand me, Shawn? I've invested _so much _in this relationship, and put so much at risk for it - my _career_, Shawn. And it's my fault entirely that you treat me without respect, because from the time we met _I let you get away with that behavior_. The most I did when you dropped your sleazy come-ons was roll my eyes or walk away. I thought I was being the mature one, but really now I think I was just setting myself up to be your doormat. Well, no longer, Shawn. I'm standing up for myself and demanding some respect now. I'm not your toy. If you can't treat me like a _woman_ and, when I'm at work, a _professional, _then we, Shawn, are _done."_

. . .

. . . .

O'Hara was a puzzle all morning long. She was clearly pissed off, glowering at her computer screen and snapping at witnesses, forcing Lassiter into the unaccustomed position of having to play nice (not that he was generally mean to mere _witnesses_, but he was pompous, and he knew it). But for a wonder, she did not seem to be angry at _him_. In fact, she seemed to go very much out of her way to be especially bright and perky and…and…_O'Hara_ whenever she addressed him. Puzzling, to say the least.

He was too chickenshit to ask her precisely what was wrong, so he simply made plans to alleviate whatever portion of her bad mood came from what he'd said to her yesterday. Preferably somewhere public.

_Very_ public.

Seriously, because in a mood like this, a slap was the least of his worries. Woman was armed and dangerous and just possibly unstable.

So he took her out to lunch at her favorite Mexican restaurant for fried ice cream, the promise of which always cheered her. She ordered that and a non-alcoholic piña colada and her black mood seemed to evaporate.

"Thanks for this, Carlton. It was just what I needed to put the morning behind me," she said, as she sipped her icy drink.

"About that, I…uh…just wanted to tell you…that I'm sorry, for what I said yesterday," he said, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck nervously. "I was out of line. Again."

"No you weren't. You were just telling me the truth. I didn't want to hear it, but…I _needed_ to. You want me to be happy, and I appreciate that, Carlton, I really do. And I'm _not _happy, and I don't know how long it would have taken me to admit that to myself if you'd kept quiet. To that end, I…had it out, with Shawn, this morning."

He wanted to know what about, and to what extent, and whether this might not spell the end of what seemed, to him, a tremendously mismatched relationship, but it was none of his business and he'd already stuck his nose further into Juliet's personal business with regards to the Spencer issue as it was. So he didn't ask the obvious questions that occurred to him. Instead he said, "Listen, I had no right to try and tell you how you should live your life. You should be who you want to be, and if you want to be the woman who squeals when Spencer smacks her on the ass, that's your choice."

Oh, so graceful. Why did he ever even bother opening his big, fat mouth?

But amazingly, Juliet didn't seem offended. "That's the thing, Carlton. I don't _want_ to be that woman. I want to be respected, cared for. I want an equal relationship - a _partnership_. I told Shawn that he'd better start giving me that, or we're through."

"Good. I'm glad. I hope he follows through," he said, but _I wouldn't hold my breath, _he thought.

"If he does…it would make me happy. Are you prepared for that?" she asked.

"O'Hara, I want nothing more." It was the truth, and she didn't need to know that it would still hurt to see her with Spencer. It would always hurt. But he could be happy for her, if she was happy.

The waiter arrived with their orders, and Juliet tucked into her ice cream with a satisfied smile. "Things will get better, Carlton, I promise. I'm angry with Shawn right now, but I'll get over it, and either he will or he won't start taking a bit of responsibility, treating me with a little respect. If he doesn't, that's it for us, and I'll move on and find somebody who _will_ do those things for me. As simple as that. But you and me, partner, we're going back on top. I'm going to start _demanding_ my proper respect, and I'll be earning it back every step of the way. You'll see. We'll kick ass again."

He smiled, fork poised over his chimichanga. "That sounds great, partner. Because we kinda do, you know. Kick ass, I mean."

She laughed, a melodic sound. "We do. And we will. Harder than ever before."


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. May contain spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

* * *

**Chapter Twenty: Merrily we Mow the Lawn…**

Despite the accord Juliet felt she and her partner had come to over lunch on Tuesday, throughout the remainder of the week she could tell he was…_mistrustful_. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She did everything she could to show him he needn't worry, but he persisted in reacting like…like…a caged animal that had never been tamed. He _flinched away from her_, on more than one occasion, when she did nothing more than hand him a case file or a cup of coffee. Time, and patience, and gentle treatment: that was the prescription for what ailed him. She was just going to have to keep treating him the way she should have treated him all along, until he came to trust her again.

Shawn mowed the lawn. Granted, this was a good thing. But as she'd feared, he seemed to think that this one simple action would be the "fix" for all their problems, and she had to sit him down and explain to him after that no, they weren't "perfect" together now that the grass was neatly trimmed. She contemplated bringing Gus and maybe Henry in to translate her words into Shawn-language.

"No more public displays of affection, Shawn. At least when I'm on duty. You will treat me with respect as an officer of the law, and you will not slap me on the ass or pinch me on the butt or anything like that. And further, when I'm at work, you will refer to me as 'Juliet' or 'Detective O'Hara,' not 'sweetie' or 'sugarcakes' or 'honeybuns' or anything similarly demeaning. I have a professional reputation to maintain, and it's taken some punishment over the past couple of years."

She didn't know whether he "got it" or not, but she had to give him a chance.

The weekend came and went, and she entered the new work week still determined to get back to that old groove, that seamless communication she and Carlton _used _to possess. And he, clearly, continued to mistrust her. It was frustrating, to say the least, but hard to blame him. He was like a dog that had been kicked and cussed until he expected nothing but more of the same. And all of his growling…that probably came as a result of him being _scared_ more than anything.

It wasn't good to equate her partner to an animal, to dehumanize him, but by God, the image of him as a scared, beaten puppy was simply heartbreaking. And slightly easier on her heart than imagining the scared, beaten child he used to be.

She couldn't pressure him too hard to accept what she was trying to get him to accept, that would be counterproductive. But as the week progressed she considered and rejected multiple plans to make him accept a little more easily. Finally she decided a little more talk might be helpful, but finding the time to do it was problematic. She didn't want to talk over lunch, with the time clock ticking away. They just didn't spend that much time together off work.

Well, there was a remedy for that. Late morning on Saturday, she politely declined Shawn's offer to join him and Gus in mainlining a Three Stooges marathon (although, unlike most women, she actually enjoyed the comics), and drove to Prospect Gardens, hoping to catch Carlton alone since Lincoln ran his surf shop on Saturdays.

His Fusion was not parked in his reserved spot in the garage.

"Dammit," she muttered. All right, think. Where would he be on a Saturday early afternoon? The gun range? Likely, but there were a number of ranges he frequented and he could be at any of them. Then she thought of something.

Mama Lassiter's house had a fairly large yard, maybe a full acre all told between front and back. Not much for a strong, healthy young-to-middle-aged person, but Myrna Lassiter had to be close to seventy. Althea looked pretty much ageless, but doubtless wasn't much younger. So who mowed their lawn? Someone did, because it was quite freshly trimmed on that Sunday she ate there. One of the women? Doubtful, when they had a…not "loving," perhaps, because Juliet couldn't bring herself to think of anyone loving Myrna Lassiter…but certainly "dutiful" son who got his weekends off, though he was often called in, and didn't have a lawn of his own.

She drove to the house. It was an off chance, but far easier to ascertain than checking each shooting range.

The black Ford Fusion was parked on the street outside, and the man himself was cutting out around the one large tree in the front yard, close to the road.

She parked her Bug and got out. "Carlton, that is…the _quietest _lawn mower I have ever heard."

He let go of the bail and the mower silenced completely. "It's electric," he said, as if he didn't want to say anything.

Juliet flinched, then grinned. "What?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing," she said. "It's just…I realized that if Shawn was here, he'd have started doing the 'Electric Slide' right then."

He said nothing, but his eye roll was eloquent.

"How well does it work?" she asked.

"Pretty well, as long as the grass isn't too heavy," he said. "It kind of feels like pushing a Fischer Price Bubble Mower, but on the plus side, starting it's as easy as pushing a button. Mom bought it because she thought she'd be able to handle it herself, but it's kind of a bitch to push, so her grasp for self-sufficiency came to naught."

Juliet walked over and gently kicked one of the wheels. "Small tires, huh?"

"Yeah, and this mud flap thing on the back that makes it even more of a bitch to pull. I've been contemplating ripping that off and tricking it out with big wheels. I'd still have to mow, but what the hell?" He looked down, towards his feet, clad in black running shoes. "O'Hara…why are you here?"

"Because I thought _you_ would be here."

"And why did you need to track _me _down? And why didn't you just call?"

"I just wanted to spend some time with you. Shawn and Gus are watching the Three Stooges, but all the shorts they've been showing are with Shemp, and I like Curly. It occurred to me you were probably mowing your mother's lawn, so I thought I'd run by, see if you wanted to do something when you're finished. I probably should have called, first, but somehow it just never occurred to me. Maybe because I personally equate phone calls from the Chief, my partner, or the county medical examiner on a weekend as the precursor to bad news."

"True," he said. "I don't have much left to mow. What did you have in mind?"

"Oh, I don't know. What would _you_ like to do?"

He shook his head. "I…have no suggestions."

Juliet opened her mouth to make one: "Shooting range?" but before she could get the words out, Myrna Lassiter opened the front door and shouted out to her son, "Booker, that broad is just after your money. I mean, look at her. Do you really think a girl that young and that pretty is after _you?"_

"She's my _work-partner, _Ma, nothing _else," _he shouted back, almost shaking with restraint and just possibly embarrassment. Myrna started to remonstrate, but he shouted her down. "Get back in the house, Ma."

The woman ducked back inside with a scowl in Juliet's direction.

Lassiter turned back to Juliet and shrugged and made noises of apology. Juliet, for her part, wanted to hug him and tell him everything was all right.

"I thought…maybe…we could go to a shooting range," Juliet said, as if the interruption had never occurred. "Red Chief's not that far away, right? You used to go there, I know."

"Red Chief closed down after Jack Atwater was killed," Lassiter said.

"I didn't know that. Any place else you like to go?"

He started to say something, but from his pocket came the ring of his cell phone, the _Cops_ theme.

"Chief Vick," he said, and answered it. "Yeah, Chief?"

The voice on the other end was tinny, but audible to Juliet. _"Carlton, I hope I'm not bothering you. I'm calling in…an _unofficial_ capacity."_

"Er…okay," he said.

"_I…find myself in need…of a favor."_

"What kind of favor?"

"_A pretty big favor. My aunt is in the hospital in San Diego with a broken hip. Richard and I are going there to see her, but we decided Iris doesn't need to make a long, tedious trip like that. She barely knows my aunt. The problem is, her regular babysitter can't take her overnight."_

"So…uh…what do you want _me_ to do?"

"_Could you look after Iris for me?"_

He shifted restlessly on his feet for a moment, then said, "Chief, Iris _hates_ me."

"_She does not," _the Chief responded, sounding amused. _"I have to confess, you wouldn't be the first person I would think to ask this, but Iris insisted."_

"_Iris insisted? _She won't even wave back at me."

"_Iris is a fan," _Karen said, quite deliberately. _"She's is a devoted follower of the six o'clock news, solely to see if you're on it - she doesn't even care if she should happen to see _me_, but she's thrilled to shout out, 'There's Carlton!' every time she sees _you. _Richard says she'll marry a cop when she grows up. I say that's fine, so long as _he_ is not _you_. No offense, Carlton, but you're somewhat too old for her."_

"No, no, I agree completely."

"_In any event, when we found out we'd have to track down someone to take her for the night, Iris asked that it be you. I can't really object, I know you'd take good care of her. Just one condition: Put your spare guns away for the night."_

"Oh, don't worry, they're already locked up in my gun safe. My little brother is living with me, I can't leave guns laying around. God forbid I shoot him if he gets up to go to the bathroom at one o'clock in the morning. But really, Karen…me? Look after Iris? Are you…_sure_ that's a good idea?"

Karen's sigh was audible even to Juliet. _"I trust you implicitly, Carlton. That said, you wouldn't be my first choice. You are so very…awkward. Prone to say…exactly the wrong thing."_

Juliet stepped up and spoke loudly. "Chief! Juliet here. I'll help Carlton look after Iris. I believe he'd be really _good_ with a child, he practically raised his siblings, and I'll make sure he's not…too…Carltony."

"_Well, that…comes as a relief. Thank you, O'Hara."_

"Er…okay…I guess that'll work," Lassiter said, looking slightly steamrollered. "Uh, I'm at my mother's place, right now, and I've got to finish up a bit of mowing. When were you thinking of bringing her by?"

"_Well, we'd like to get a move on, but it will be minute before she's packed and ready. Say…half an hour?"_

"That'll work for me; I'll have time to finish up here and get home. Er…if she's staying overnight I'll have to feed her…does she have any dietary restrictions?"

"_None,"_ Karen said, and she sounded amused again. _"We don't typically let her have sweets and junk food, but she's allowed such things on special occasions, and I feel this qualifies. If you ply her with junk food, I'd just ask that you feed her a proper meal at dinner."_

"Does she like spaghetti?"

"_She _loves_ spaghetti."_

"Well, good, I've got the fixings. I'll make up a pot of that. I'll…uh…I'll see you in a bit, Chief."

"_In a bit, Carlton. And…thank you. And thank O'Hara for me, too."_

"Will do." He clicked out of the phone call and stared at his cell for a minute, apparently in disbelief. "That was…kind of surreal."

"In what way?" Juliet asked, laughing.

"Kids don't ask to stay with me. Kids don't like me. I scare them. I would be prepared to swear I scare Iris. This doesn't make sense."

"Iris does react shyly toward you," Juliet said, and she smiled. _"I _think she exhibits all the classic symptoms of a crush."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," he said, with a toss of the head. "What eight year old would conceive a crush on _me, _of all people?"

"Hey, when I was about that age, I had a crush on Anton Arcane, from the TV show _Swamp Thing," _Juliet admitted.

He had turned back to the mower, but he turned his head to look at her, a doubtful eyebrow raised. "But he was…the _bad guy," _he said.

"You _know _that?" she asked, amazed.

"No, I just pulled it out of my ass, because I'm psychic," he said. _"Obviously _I know that. I watch TV occasionally, you know. I've seen _Swamp Thing._ Anton Arcane was played by Mark Lindsay Chapman, a British actor. He played Nick in Stephen King's _The Langoliers."_

"In Stephen King's _what?"_

"_The Langoliers_. A miniseries, based on a short novella from the collection _Four Past Midnight_. The langoliers are these little…monsters…that eat the past."

"Say _what?"_

"Look, I can't really explain it. It's a good movie, though. I've got it on DVD, if you want to borrow it sometime."

He turned back to the mower, held in a red button on the handle, and picked up the bail. The little engine whirred into life, and he began cutting the grass near the sidewalk, all that was left of the yard to do. "Mark Lindsay Chapman is the kind of guy a little girl _might_ get a crush on. I don't quite understand why you would ever conceive a crush on _Anton Arcane, _though," he said, over the noise. "He was the _bad guy."_

"Can I let you in on a little secret?" Juliet said. "Little girls _often_ conceive crushes on bad boys. _Big_ girls, too."

"Is that the draw with Spencer?" he said, and then, "Sorry, sorry. Forget I said anything."

"I don't know," she said, and that was honest. She _didn't_ know whether Shawn's bad boy ways had influenced her attraction. They probably had. "But I can tell you, that's some of the draw with _you."_

His hands clenched and unclenched. "I'm not a bad boy," he said.

"Carlton, you are a _little bit _of a bad boy," Juliet insisted. "Trigger-happy, _ever so slightly _arrogant on the job…you've got a pretty strong _Dirty Harry _vibe. Couple that with you being on TV so often, and those big blue eyes, and I can see Iris getting a little crush going."

"…I've got to…finish the mowing…" he said, and turned his attention very firmly to the task at hand. Unfortunately for him, he was finished in a matter of moments, which left him with no handy excuse to ignore her.

Juliet smiled and headed toward her car after he put the mower away. "Do you want me to run by a grocery store and pick up some treats? Chips, cookies? Soda pop?" she asked.

"I've got all that kind of thing," he said. "If Iris doesn't like what I've got to hand, maybe you could run out later when she tells us her preferences?"

"Sounds all right by me."

He checked his watch. "Well, we'd…better get going."

"Yeah. I'll meet you there." She climbed into her Beetle and started the engine.

He leaned in towards the window. "Are you…sure this is how you want to spend your day? Babysitting? With _me?"_

She grinned at him. "Are you kidding? This'll be great!"


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. May contain spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

**A/N: **I've been waiting for this chapter for such a long time! I love any time a fanfic'er puts these characters together, but I've never done it myself. Here's hoping I do it right.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One: Such a Pretty Little Flower**

Lassiter was embarrassed to witness his hand shaking as he reached for the doorknob to answer the knock. He took a deep, steadying breath and opened the door. Richard and Karen Vick stood on the other side of the entry, and a little blonde-haired girl hid behind Karen's legs, a pink backpack on her shoulder. She wasn't _quite_ hiding, but pretty close.

"Hello, Carlton. Thank you for this," Karen said. "Iris, come on out here and say hello."

The little girl didn't come any further out from behind her mother's legs, but she raised one hand in a tentative sort of salutation. "Hi, Detective Lassiter," she said, in a very quiet voice.

"Hello, Iris. Hello, Karen - Richard. Come on in." He stood out of the way and held the door.

They stepped inside. "Thank you, we won't stay long. The road calls."

Juliet stepped out of the kitchen, where she'd been standing by the dining table. "Hello, Iris!" she greeted cheerfully.

Iris smiled and waved. "Hello, Detective O'Hara!"

"Did you have any questions for us?" Richard asked Lassiter.

"What time is bedtime?" he asked.

"She doesn't have a set bedtime on Saturdays, but she usually conks out somewhere around nine thirty."

"Do you have…_appropriate _entertainment?" Karen asked. "I had her pack a few books and a favorite DVD, but she's always eager to watch or to read something new, so she might beg to see some of your DVDs."

"I've got some…_kid-friendly _things, yeah," Lassiter said, with a nod. "Old-time comedians like Red Skelton and Jack Benny and Abbott and Costello. We should be all right."

"Mm. Good luck getting Iris to watch something in black and white," Richard said.

"Yes, she…doesn't like watching _dead _people, either," Karen said.

Lassiter stood stock still for a moment, thinking, eyes wide. "Well," he said, slowly, after awhile, "I've still got some stuff she might like. I even have a couple of Disney movies. _Mighty Joe Young _and _Secretariat."_

"_Mighty Joe Young, _eh? I don't think she's ever seen that one. Might make her cry," Richard said.

"Well, it's not half as sad as the original," Karen said. "Okay, we'll be leaving now; call us if you have any questions or concerns. Iris, be a good girl. We'll see you tomorrow."

"Bye bye Mommy, bye bye Daddy," Iris said, waving.

Karen and Richard left, and the door snicked shut behind them, leaving a very awkward head detective staring at what seemed to be a very shy eight year old girl with blonde braids, brown eyes, a t-shirt featuring Fluttershy of the _My Little Ponies_, blue jeans and pink sneakers. Lassiter opened and closed his mouth a few times reflexively, then leaned forward with his hands on his knees, hoping against all hope that he didn't come across too condescending or too forceful.

"So, Iris…do you like root beer floats?" he asked. The little girl's eyes lit up and she nodded. "Good. Why don't you pick out something to watch - you can use your own DVD or one of mine, just let Detective O'Hara help you pick one out - and I'll make us up some root beer floats. And we'll have cookies to go along with 'em, does that sound good? I've got Oreo Crème-filled Chewy Chips Ahoy. That okay?"

"That sounds great," Iris said, and plunked her backpack down on the floor next to the loveseat. "Where are your DVDs?"

"In that cabinet over next to the television."

Juliet joined the little girl at the entertainment center and helped her push the doors aside. "Carlton…you have gaming consoles," Juliet said, surprised.

"Yes, I do. But I don't think I have any games Iris would like to play."

She scanned the list of titles. "The _Mass Effect _trilogy doesn't surprise me much," she said. "It doesn't look like you have any other shooters, and _that_ does. Carlton. _L.A. Noire? _Don't you get _enough _of being a detective?"

"It's the time period," Lassiter said, with a shrug. "I don't play it _much_. It's ridiculously easy."

"_Dragon Age, _eh? Shawn used to have that. He sold it back before I got to finish playing it. I was kinda mad, but it was his game, he could do what he wanted with it."

"That's my favorite. I've got a reserve on the newest title in the series, out in November."

"Who's your favorite character? _Morrigan? _That was Shawn's."

"Oh God, no. Morrigan is a…" his eyes flicked to Iris, watching them both with interest, "…dresses horribly and acts worse. No, my favorite character is Loghain. I'm hoping he makes a return cameo in the third title, for those of us who spare him in the first."

"But _Carlton," _Juliet said, eyes wide, grinning, "Loghain is the _bad guy."_

"No, he's not. He made a _tactical error."_

"What are you two _talking about?" _Iris asked.

"Oh, just a silly little game," Juliet said, turning to her. "Come on, let's look for a good movie to watch. But as for you, Mister," she said, pointing a finger at Lassiter, "we _will_ be discussing this further at a later date. Loghain is _so_ the bad guy."

"The _Archdemon_ is the bad guy. And Arl Howe. Not Loghain."

"He's the _bad guy," _she singsonged, and turned her attention to the shelves of neatly stacked DVDs and VHS tapes. "Geez, Carlton, you've still got a VCR?"

"Hey, I still have a hi fi and an eight-track player."

Iris inspected a title. "What's Amad Eyoos?" she asked.

"_Amadeus," _Lassiter said. "It's a not-quite-true story of the life and death of Mozart. Not remotely true, really. _Fictionalized."_

"_Much Ado About Nothing? _Carlton, honestly," Juliet said. "You are chock full of surprises."

"What? It's a good movie. Despite the fact that someone actually thought _Keanu Reeves* _had the chops to do Shakespeare."

"_Seabiscuit _- that's about a horse, right?" Iris said. _"Secretariat. War Horse. _You like horses, don't you, Detective Lassiter?"

"Guilty, Your Honor," he said, and went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He pulled out a couple of brown bottles of IBC root beer.

Iris smiled. "I like horses, too," she said. "Do you ever get to ride?"

"Not as much as I'd like," he said, as he pulled a tub of Blue Bunny vanilla ice cream out of the freezer. "Mostly only at Civil War reenactments these days."

"Carlton, can I just ask?" Juliet said. "Why do you _just happen _to have the makings for root beer floats in your fridge?"

"They were Lincoln's favorite treat, when he was younger," he said, trying hard not to blush.

She poked her head around the doorway into the kitchen. "Carlton. Are you _sentimental?"_

"Little bit." He said it like it was no big deal, as he pulled down tall glass mugs from a cabinet. "If you want to know how much, keep checking my DVDs 'til you find my collection of _Fraggle Rock."_

"_Fraggle Rock? _You have _Fraggle Rock _on DVD?"

"The whole series. It was Lulu's favorite, when she was little." He got out an ice cream scoop and shrugged his shoulders. "I watch it, sometimes, too. Brings back fond memories. I don't have many of those." He said that last in a very quiet voice.

Juliet ducked back into the living room. "Iris, do you want to watch _Fraggle Rock? _That was my favorite show, when I was your age. It's about these five little creatures who live in a cave behind this man's wall, and they have adventures and sing songs."

"Maybe. Let me see what else there is," Iris said.

"Okay." Juliet snapped her mouth shut with an audible click of teeth.

"What's Arma…ged…don?" Iris asked.

"_Armageddon," _Juliet said. "A big rock from outer space comes toward earth and Bruce Willis has to go up in a space ship and blow it up."

"Mm." The little girl continued to scan titles, reading one out here and there. _"Soldier. Windtalkers. Dangerous Lady _parts one and two, _The Running Man. _Oo, _Clash of the Titans!" _She pulled the case out of the line. "Wait a minute, who's _Harry Hamlin?"_

"That's the original _Clash of the Titans_, Iris," Lassiter called out from the kitchen. "I don't have the Sam Worthington one. But I do have _Avatar, _if you like him."

"Why do you have two _King Kong_s?" Iris called out.

"The original one with Faye Wray, and the Peter Jackson remake."

"Black and white," Iris muttered, and turned back to the titles. _"Black Hawk Down. Gettysburg. Saving Private Ryan. _War movies. You have so many war movies!"

"Yeah. Sorry. I'm a boy," Lassiter said, as he scooped vanilla ice cream into the three mugs.

"What's _Gunga Din?" _Iris asked.

"Oh, _good_ movie. Cary Grant. But it's black and white, and full of…dead people."

"How many Clint Eastwood movies do you own?" she demanded.

"How many are there? Although granted, I don't own _The Bridges of Madison County."_

"_Shark Attack 3: Megalodon. _Can we watch that?" she asked, excitedly.

Lassiter stuck his head through the doorway into the living room. "It's a really rotten movie, Iris."

"But I love sharks! What's a megalodon?"

"A type of shark that's gone extinct. I've got a couple of megalodon teeth up on the shelf over there. I really can't let you watch that movie, Iris; it's not a good movie, and it has some questionable content. But if you like sharks you can look at my fossil teeth."

The little girl abandoned the DVD shelves and ran across the room to the curio shelves on the far wall. "Where are they?"

"Above your eye line, I'm afraid," Lassiter said. He came in to the room and crossed over to her, and picked up off a high shelf two enormous teeth, one dark gray, with a broken edge and tip, and the other a dark khaki color and larger than his hand. He handed her the smaller, broken tooth. "You can play with that one, if you want, but this one was…kind of expensive."

"There were really sharks with teeth that big?" Juliet asked.

"Yes, there were," Lassiter said. "Figuring out how big it really was is kind of a matter of science taking its best guess, but the most common estimate these days is that it was about sixty feet long, or roughly the size of a bus. They ate whales. And they know that because they've found fossilized whale bones with megalodon tooth marks on them."

"Why did you buy a broken shark's tooth anyway, Carlton?" Juliet asked.

"It was the first fossil I ever bought. I was at university at the time, and I couldn't afford one like this," he said, gesturing with the larger, unbroken specimen. "The broken one cost me about fourteen fifty. I bought this one about fifteen years ago and it cost me around three hundred bucks."

"Oh please, please, _please_ can we watch the megalodon movie?" Iris asked.

"No no no no no. No no no, your mother would never forgive me. She'd probably fire me."

Juliet's eye caught on something. "Hey Iris, you want to watch a _good_ shark movie?" she asked, slyly pulling a case from the shelf. She held it up. _Jaws._

Lassiter's brow wrinkled in consternation. "I don't know if she should watch _that," _he said.

"I was about her age when I first saw it," Juliet said.

"I was younger, but it's still a pretty rough movie. One she maybe ought to watch with her parents."

"Oh please? Please, please, please?" Iris begged, clutching the broken megalodon tooth in her folded hands.

"I don't know…maybe…maybe I should call your mom, ask her whether it's okay for you to watch it," he said, and pulled out his cell phone. He hit the speed dial for Chief Vick's number.

"_Carlton. I didn't even make it out of Santa Barbara. What's the problem?" _Karen said.

"Iris would like to watch _Jaws_, and while _my_ parents took me to see it when it first came out, when I was six, I would never hold my parents to the standard of anything parental. I thought I'd better make it your ruling."

"Jaws, _eh? I can't stand that movie," _Karen said, with a vocal shudder. _"It would be right up Iris' alley, though, wouldn't it? And…beach season is pretty much over for the year, so she'd have time before we next go swimming in the ocean to get over any trauma. I…suppose…she has to see it sooner or later. Just, stick close to her while she watches it, okay? I'm hoping having adults close at hand will lessen the scary bits. It probably won't bother her at all, and she'll spend the whole movie telling you how sharks just don't behave that way."_

"All right. I just wanted to be sure."

"_Thank you, Carlton, for asking."_

"Sorry to bother you, Chief."

"_It's no bother. I'd sooner have you call and ask these things than not."_

"Safe travels, and my best to your aunt," he said, and ended the call. He put the phone away and put the unbroken megalodon tooth back up on the shelf. He pointed at Juliet. "You can pop that in, if you'd be so kind, O'Hara. I'll go finish up the floats and be back in a second. Iris, if you really like sharks and you don't mind that it's broken, you can have that tooth."

She was clearly enchanted. "Thank you! It's so cool!"

"Carlton, that was your first fossil," Juliet said.

He shrugged. "Well, now it's _Iris'_ first fossil. Who else am I going to give it to? _My_ kid?" He disappeared back into the kitchen.

"What other fossils do you have?" Juliet asked, as she opened up the DVD case.

"An allosaurus claw, a tyrannosaurus tooth, a trilobite, a fish, a couple of small ammonites, and a…a coprolite. They're all up on the shelves in there."

"What's a coprolite, and why did you pause before you said it?" Juliet asked, shrewdly. Lassiter stuck his head back into the room, grinning.

"It's dinosaur dookie."

"_Ew!" _Iris said.

"It doesn't smell anymore. It's not squishy," he said, and ducked back into the kitchen.

"Ew, ew, ew, _ew!"_

Juliet browsed the curio shelves looking for these things, but couldn't see them. "Where are they?" she asked.

"They're on the higher shelves."

"Well, why are they up there?" she asked.

"Because normally nobody's looking at them but me, so I tend to put them at _my_ eye level, not, oh, say, _yours."_ He came out of the kitchen bearing three tall floats he set down on the coffee table in front of the loveseat.

"Well, I'd like to see them, and Iris probably would, too. How often do you get to see a dinosaur turd, anyway?"

"Ew," Iris said again. Then, "Who's Lucinda Barry?"

Lassiter was momentarily taken aback. "My…old partner."

"She's dead?" Iris asked.

"Uh…yeah. She was…killed a few years ago. Line of duty casualty. In Ventura, where she was transferred."

"You won a shooting tournament in her memory," Iris said, fingering a trophy on a low shelf.

"Yeah."

"Carlton. I'm sorry. I didn't know," Juliet said. "Were you…still close?"

He shook his head, then reached back and ruffled his hair distractedly. "I never really got a chance to get to know her that well. We were only partners for…oh, not even a year. You wanted to see my fossils? Here, I'll show you."

He took things off the high shelves and showed them off: an allosaurus claw, wickedly curved and still looking dangerous, a tyrannosaurus tooth, roughly a foot long counting the attached root, a mid-sized trilobite and a couple of small coiled seashells and a small fish skeleton embedded in stone. Then he pulled down a large flat rock, sliced and polished and oddly pretty, but still looking distinctly…_patty-shaped. _The coprolite. Iris refused to touch it, but Juliet was brave enough to hold it for a closer look.

"Oh my God, there's little bits of_ plant_ in it, isn't there?" she said, handing it back with a groan.

"Cost about eleven bucks. Not my greatest investment, in terms of fossils, but a favorite," he said, grinning, as he put it back on the shelf. "I don't want to _admit_ how much the t-rex tooth set me back. Now come on, come on, the floats are melting."

He disappeared into the kitchen again and reemerged with a plate of cookies. Juliet popped the DVD into the player and started it up. Iris sat in between them on the loveseat, munching a cookie between spoonfuls of root beer and vanilla ice cream as the opening theme played.

* * *

* Should I be affronted that my computer can't recognize my last name as correctly spelled and yet has no trouble accepting _Keanu? _Granted, there aren't that many Vannonis in the world, but how many Keanus have you met? Keani?

To** TheShulesLovinPs(ycho, **presumably): I have to say it, I am _honored _that you are willing to overlook my admittedly brutal and highly unflattering portrayal of Shawn and read this story anyway. It means more than I can say. I certainly would never ask nor expect any staunch Shawn fan to read my stuff and honestly I should probably put a warning in the summary that I have a very Lassiterian outlook on the guy. I have to continue to be mean to him because there has to be a good reason for Juliet to kick him to the curb, but I will be as tender as possible. I do like the guy, after all, to a certain extent. Kind of like Lassiter kind of likes him. Doesn't mean we don't want to _hurt _him, we just don't want to outright _kill _him. Most of the time.

**A/N: **In case you can't tell, I am an avid fossil collector, and made Lassiter one simply because I could. My allosaurus claw, however, is a museum-quality plaster replica made for me by my seventh grade science teacher and presented to me on my birthday, which was the very first day of school, because my _sixth_ grade science teacher had reported to him that I was a dinophile. My t-rex tooth is real, and _no, _I do _not _want to admit how much it set me back. My coprolite does indeed have little bits of visible plant material in it.


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. May contain spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

To **TheShulesLovinPsycho: **Don't worry, I don't reckon I got no reason to _kill_ nobody, aw haw. I am not and never have been much of a fan of deathfics anyway.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Conversations in the Key of Tense**

Despite the inaccuracies of the movie's portrayal of shark behavior, and the times when a young girl raised in an era of computer-generated monsters could not but scoff at the old school special effects, Iris seemed to enjoy _Jaws_ quite well. Lassiter and Juliet, of course, very carefully neglected to mention that two of the main actors were now dead.

She jumped and clung to Lassiter's arm when the shark rose up out of the water while Brody was chumming, and laughed at his declaration to Quint: "You're gonna need a bigger boat." When the shark swam by the _Orca_ just visible as a massive gray shadow beneath the blue surface of the ocean, she turned the megalodon tooth over in her hands and looked at it.

"This shark was even bigger than that?" she asked, looking at Lassiter.

"By a lot. Megalodon could have eaten _Jaws_ for a snack," he said.

"But megalodon isn't alive anymore?" she asked.

"Nope. Died out shortly after the evolution of the killer whale. They think it was out-competed, because orcas travel in pods and hunt cooperatively."

"Would Mr. Quint be able to catch one if they were still alive?"

Lassiter laughed. "I kinda doubt it. Can't imagine what kind of tackle you'd need to haul in a sixty foot fish. Maybe if, instead of piano wire, he used cables from a suspension bridge. And he'd _definitely_ need a bigger boat."

"The ocean is awful big," Iris said.

"Yes, it is."

"It's awful deep."

"It is at that."

"They don't really _know_ what all is living in it."

"Hoping megalodon is still alive out there somewhere?" Lassiter asked.

"It would be _really cool."_

"Yeah, it would. Unless he was trying to eat you."

Juliet shuddered. "Great whites are big and scary enough for me, thanks," she said.

"I suspect my brother and his surfer friends would agree with you."

"Great whites jump out of the water sometimes, like, completely," Iris said. "I saw a show on the Discovery channel about it. I wonder if megalodon ever jumped out of the water."

"Nobody really knows, but if they hunted whale then they were hunting prey that's a lot bigger in relation to them than seals are to great whites," Lassiter said. "That tactic probably wouldn't work for them."

"It'd sure be awesome to see, though," Iris said wistfully. Lassiter imagined a sixty-foot shark launching itself bodily out of the water in the manner of the South African great whites and couldn't help but agree.

The movie wound on, and Iris kept fiddling with the tooth in her hands the whole time she watched. She exclaimed in dismay when Quint was eaten and cheered when Brody blew up the oxygen tank and the shark drifted slowly to the ocean floor. Brody and Hooper paddled back to shore and the end credits rolled.

"Well, what's the verdict?" Lassiter asked. "Good movie?"

Iris nodded decisively. "It would never happen, but it was a good movie anyway."

"You don't have any of the sequels, do you, Carlton?" Juliet said.

"No, I'm afraid I don't. Well, the only one worth watching is the second one, anyway."

"You don't like number three?" Juliet asked.

"The only thing it had going for it was Louis Gossett, Jr."

"_And _it was in 3D," Juliet said.

"I hate 3D," Lassiter said. "The _king_ of cheap special effects."

"Oh. Well, what should we watch now? I don't know about Iris, but I'm kind of in the mood now for something light and funny. Can we watch some _Fraggle Rock, _Iris? Please? Please, please, please? I haven't seen it in forever," Juliet said.

"Do you promise it's good?" Iris asked.

"It's the best, Iris, I swear. It's Muppets."

"Oh. Okay, I like the Muppets," Iris said.

Juliet jumped up off the loveseat and opened up the entertainment center again. She located the boxes on the third shelf and grabbed the first of them. "You're gonna love it, Iris. _Fraggle Rock _had the best stories and the best songs."

"And the Doozers," Lassiter said.

"You would like the Doozers," Juliet said, grinning. "Little workaholics. Which is your favorite Fraggle? I always liked Red best."

"I like Boober."

"That makes a certain amount of sense, too, but really you're more of a Gobo yourself, Carlton. Adventurous, brave, and a born leader."

He snorted. "I'm…uh…no born leader."

"You are so, Head Detective."

"I hate to borrow one of Spencer's lines, but, 'Agree to disagree.'"

"Come on, Mister, you don't have a leg to stand on," Juliet said.

"Would you put the DVD on already?" Lassiter said. "I'm going to make the prediction that Iris will like Red the best. Lulu liked her best, too."

"Who's Lulu?" Iris asked.

"My baby sister, Lauren," Lassiter said. "She's the reason I own a kid's show on DVD. I was thirteen - almost fourteen - when she was born, so most likely I never would have watched _Fraggle Rock _when it was on back then if it hadn't been for her…although maybe, because Lincoln watched it sometimes. He liked Wembley best, which always surprised me. If anyone is a Gobo, it's Lincoln."

"Who's Lincoln?" Iris asked.

"My little brother. You'll meet him tonight after he gets off work. He's been staying with me."

"You know, I completely forgot about that. Where are Iris and I going to sleep?" Juliet asked.

Lassiter looked at her in shock. "You're…staying over?"

"Well, I had thought to," she said. "That's why I brought my go-bag in from the car."

"Well, I was, uh…going to put Iris in my bed, and stay the night with Lincoln in the guest room. I've got clean sheets down already. I just did the laundry this morning."

"We can't kick you out of your bed," Juliet said.

"It won't be the first time I've had to bunk with my brother, and chances are he'll have a date tonight anyway," Lassiter said. "Don't worry about it."

Juliet put the DVD in the machine and Lassiter chose the "Play All" option from the menu of titles. The downbeats of the opening theme sounded as the image on screen swept through Doc's window and into the hole in the wall that led to the magical world of the Fraggles.

"I should be embarrassed that I still like this show," Lassiter said. "But I'm not."

"It really was meant for all ages," Juliet said. "Sure, it's _aimed_ at kids, but it speaks to the kid in all of us."

"There is no kid in me," Lassiter said. He shifted on the couch and crossed his arms over his chest. "Okay, maybe just a little one."

"There's a _lot _of kid in you, Carlton. He comes out to play every time you get into it with Shawn."

"More like comes out to _fight."_

They watched the first episode. Iris seemed to enjoy it. Eventually she got down off the sofa and pulled a _My Little Pony _coloring book and a 120 box of Crayola crayons out of her backpack and sat down on the floor at the coffee table to color while she watched. Juliet got up and wandered the room a bit, looking at the shelves of trophies and curios, though she still sang along with the songs she found she still remembered from her childhood.

The trophy from the Lucinda Barry Memorial tournament was on a very low shelf, down where it could hardly be noticed by anyone taller than, say, an eight year old. Juliet picked it up and looked at it. It didn't specifically say that it was a shooting tournament, but the little golden figure at the top was holding a rifle and the plaque at the base said "Precision." Iris had seen plenty of shooting tournament trophies in her own home, won by her mother, so it was not at all surprising she recognized it for what it was. Juliet looked at the other items on the low shelf and found a plaque from the same tournament, advertising similar success in a clay pigeon round - all targets struck. Hidden away on a low shelf where they couldn't be seen, or felt, or thought about.

"Carlton?" she ventured.

"Yeah?"

"When did it happen?" Spoken in a low, quiet voice.

He looked over the back of the loveseat at her, saw the trophies she was holding, and sighed. "Does it matter?"

"She was your partner…and someone you cared about."

He sighed again. "Three years ago, or thereabouts. She was undercover, trying to bust a drug ring, and…I guess they figured out who she was."

"How long had it been since the two of you…you know, spoke?" Juliet asked.

"Since she transferred."

"Really?"

He shrugged. "We weren't together long, either as partners or as…partners."

"You could have made an effort, Carlton," Juliet said, a trifle severely.

"She asked me not to," he said, very quietly.

Her shoulders slumped, and she put the trophies back on the shelf. "Oh. Sorry."

"That whole relationship was a mistake and she knew it," he said. "My fault. I was weak. So she transferred out, to avoid the talk and the disapproval from the higher-ups and then…well…I wasn't there for her. My fault again."

"Carlton. It was _not_ your fault. How many times have I been alone undercover?" Juliet asked.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better? Because it really doesn't, you know."

"Do you wish it were _her_ badge number on your back?"

He shook his head. _"You _are the partner I'm meant to protect, O'Hara," he said. "But it's _my fault _that it wasn't her."


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. May contain spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

**To TheShulesLovinPsycho:** I know I'm responding to you on the wrong story, but that's just the way I roll. I write…a lot. You've probably already figured that out. I work from home, and am a multitasker par excellance (hell, I can write and play video games at the same time, and frequently do), and I don't waste a lot of time on unessential activities like sleep. I average ten thousand words a day, spread across multiple fan and original fics. You might say my focus is slightly fractured, but even when I can't concentrate I can usually knock out one chapter of _something_ per day (although in some of my fics, usually my original ones, the chapters are seventy pages long). It is much easier to write for my other fandoms or my original work than it is to write _Psych _fic, since in those if I run out of inspiration all I have to do is throw in another dragon. Much, much harder to write about "normal" people with "normal" abilities, even leaving out the fact I know nothing of police procedure (which is why I spend as little time as possible on "cases" and stick to character development). I'm very rarely struck with debilitating writer's block - I can always write _something, _just not necessarily what I want to write.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Spaghetti**

"I wonder which fraggle Shawn liked best?" Juliet said, not totally aware she was speaking aloud. On screen, Wembley and Gobo were dancing around to a song about friendship, and it had reminded her of Shawn and Gus.

"I seriously doubt Spencer ever watched this show," Lassiter said.

"Really? Why not? It's really in the right era for him. I mostly saw it in syndication, 'cause it came out in, what, '83? Shawn would have been the perfect age."

"Yeah. But there's very few explosions, no car chases, no gunfights. _Fraggle Rock _is far too cute and innocent for Spencer, even as young as he was when it came out. Even if he wanted to watch it, Henry probably wouldn't have let him. It doesn't teach anything police-related."

"Well, that's kind of the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it, Mr. Eastwood-fan? And what do you mean about Henry?"

"I would never have liked _Fraggle Rock _if it weren't for Lulu, that's true. She sang along, she danced…it made her so darned happy, I couldn't help loving it. Heck, after one particular episode I went out and bought a case of strawberry Crush and told Lulu it was 'Wembley's Wonderful Whoopie Water.' She loved it. As to the other thing I said, well, I've spent enough one-on-one time with Henry to know he taught Spencer a lot of his tricks. Probably all of them. I don't think he was trying to turn his son into a chronic liar and a sociopath, but we don't always get what we want."

"I know you don't believe Shawn is psychic, but calling him a sociopath is a little harsh, don't you think?"

"It's the easiest way to explain how he passed the polygraph. Although Henry probably taught him something about that, too."

Juliet shook her head sadly. "Oh, Carlton."

"When are you going to admit that Spencer is a liar? He's lying to you, too, you know."

There was nothing for it but to change the subject. "Iris, how do you like _Fraggle Rock?" _Juliet asked.

"I like it. The songs are great and the stories are funny."

"Who's your favorite fraggle?"

"Hard to pick. Red is fun, but Wembley is adorable, and Mokey reminds me of Mom. Not in the way she talks or the things she does, exactly, but in how she's so _calm."_

"_Ha!" _Lassiter laughed.

"What?" Iris said.

"It's just…I've seen your mom lose her calm," Lassiter said, laughing. "I'm glad if you haven't, though. You've got a good mom, Iris. I hope you never forget how lucky you are."

Juliet couldn't help thinking just how _un_lucky Carlton was, but she bit her lip and kept silent.

Lassiter clapped his hands against his knees and pushed himself up off the couch. "It's just about supper time. I should get the spaghetti started. Can I get you guys anything? I've got Coke, iced tea, and Lincoln wouldn't mind sharing his Mountain Dew, if you're into that stuff. I could put some coffee on, O'Hara."

"Coke, please," Iris said.

"I wouldn't mind coffee, if you want some," Juliet said.

"O'Hara. This is _me_ you're talking to. I'll put the coffee on."

Juliet and Iris followed him into the kitchen and sat themselves at the island counter. "Mind if we watch?" Juliet asked as Lassiter poured Iris a Coke.

"Is the fine art of spaghetti making that interesting to see?" he asked.

"Everybody does it differently," Juliet said.

"Suit yourselves." He began pulling things out of cabinets; a large silver pan, an oblong blue plastic container, a box of spaghetti noodles, two glass jars of Ragu spaghetti sauce.

"What's that blue thing?" Juliet asked.

"I have no idea what the name of it is, but you microwave the noodles in it," he said.

"You _microwave_…the noodles?" Juliet said.

"It actually works just fine, surprisingly."

"Where did you get it?"

"My mom gave it to me. She was in the midst of a QVC enthusiasm. You wouldn't believe the shit she bought. For awhile there, David Venable was Public Enemy Number One. She almost spent herself into bankruptcy."

"How did you get her to stop spending?"

"Took away her credit cards. She can't memorize a number to save her life." He caught the look she shot him. "I gave them back when she returned to reality. Mom has…mental 'issues' that cloud her judgment from time to time."

He went into the refrigerator and took out two pounds of ground beef in plastic tubes. He glanced inside and an eyebrow twitched.

"Want some cheese?" he asked. He pulled out another plastic tube that contained a log of goat cheese covered in apples and cinnamon.

"Oo, yes, please," Juliet said.

"Why does the cheese have…_stuff_ on it?" Iris asked.

"It's apples, Iris. You want to try it? It's really tasty."

"I don't know…" she said.

He got out a knife and cut a piece for Juliet, then cut another, slimmer piece. "Here. Just try it. If you don't like it, don't eat it."

Juliet bit into her piece. "Mmm, it's really good, Iris. Tangy and creamy."

Iris tentatively took a bite. Her face screwed up momentarily. "Wow, the apples are tart. But…it's…pretty tasty, actually."

"It's good to try new things," Lassiter said. He put the rest of the cheese log back in the refrigerator and returned to the spaghetti prep. He cut the two pounds of beef out of their plastic casings and put them in the big pan to brown on a gas burner of the stove. "How do you like your spaghetti meat, Iris; big chunks or fine?"

"I like chunks."

"A girl after my own heart. Lulu always had to have the meat cut up super-fine. Actually, she would have preferred spaghetti without meat whatsoever, but the rest of the family was carnivorous so she just had to deal."

"Oh, I don't like spaghetti without meat. Mom makes great meatballs. Not very often, but…"

"Yeah, she works a lot. Hard to find time to cook when you work a lot. Of course, I don't have anyone to cook for, even when I have the time."

"What about Lincoln?" Juliet asked.

"Lincoln doesn't hang around here. He'll probably be moving out soon. He hired a girl to handle the shop for him so he can give surf lessons, so he's making more money. A little. Don't see how taking people out on the ocean and teaching them how to stand on a piece of Styrofoam makes up for the expense of hiring a worker, but…"

Juliet's cell phone rang. She answered it.

"No, I don't want to change my car insurance," she said, and rolled her eyes. "Please take me off your call list."

"I got one of those calls the other day," Lassiter said.

Juliet logged off the call and looked at her phone. "I should call Shawn, let him know I won't be home tonight."

Lassiter cleared his throat, rolled his eyes, and turned back to the spaghetti. He shook out a thick double-handful of noodles and broke them in two over the blue plastic thing.

"Wow, you're strong," Iris said.

He grinned, laughing a little. "It's spaghetti, not a telephone book."

"I saw on the Mythbusters that it's actually easy to tear a telephone book if you do it from the spine end," Iris said.

"Perhaps, but I don't see any particular reason to make the experiment myself," Lassiter said. "Not that I have much use for my telephone book under ordinary circumstances."

Juliet dialed up Shawn's number. He answered on the third ring. "Hey Shawn. Just wanted to let you know I won't be home tonight. I'm watching Iris Vick for the Chief. No, you _can't_ come over, Shawn. Because we're going to have an all-girls slumber party. No boys allowed." As far as she was concerned, he didn't need to know she was watching Iris with Lassiter, or that she was at Lassiter's place. Let him think she was at Chief Vick's house.

Lassiter filled the blue plastic thing with hot water, put the lid on, and put it in the microwave for ten minutes. He stood with the heels of his hands planted on the edges of the counter, staring at the microwave, for a moment or two until the meat in the pan started to sizzle, and he went to stir it up so it would brown evenly and not burn.

"Shawn," Juliet said suddenly, "who was your favorite fraggle?"

"_My favorite __what__?" _he asked.

"Your favorite fraggle. From _Fraggle Rock. _You remember _Fraggle Rock_, don't you? It's from the eighties."

"_You mean that puppet show? Jules, I never watched that. Too cute and cuddly. I have a low tolerance for that kind of thing."_

"Even when you were little?"

"_Why watch _Fraggle Rock _when there was _CHiPS _and the _A-Team?"

"Hand the phone to Gus, why don't you?"

"_What?"_

"I know he's sitting right next to you."

She heard some mumbling as the exchange was made, and then Gus's voice: _"Hello, Juliet."_

"Hi Gus. I was just wondering…which was your favorite fraggle?"

"_Large Marvin. But my favorite character overall was Sprocket. I loved the episode where he digs his way into Fraggle Rock and the doozers want him to destroy their towers, but then Cotterpin figures out he's not supposed to be there so she takes him to the Gorg's garden, where he meets the Trash Heap, who speaks dog, and then he rescues Gobo from Junior Gorg by barking loud and disturbing Pa's nap. What made you ask?"_

"I've been watching the show with Iris Vick, and it brought back some happy childhood memories."

"_What was _your_ favorite character, then?"_

"Red Fraggle. I think she was just about every little girl's favorite."

"_Do you remember your favorite episode?"_

"Hard to pick just one, but probably the one where Red meets the sea monster, and everybody thinks she's just out for attention. That or the one where she tries to play injured to impress Rock Hockey Hannah."

"_I remember that one. Red had a great song in it. Shawn doesn't know what he missed," _Gus said.

"No, he really doesn't."

"_Iris has the DVDs, huh?"_

"No, actually. Carlton does."

Gus paused. _"Say what now?"_

"Don't tell Shawn, okay, Gus? He really doesn't need to know." She said goodbye and ended the call.

"Guster will tell Spencer what you said, sure as shootin'," Lassiter said, from the stove.

"I should have made him swear the Solemn Oath of the Fraggle."

Lassiter laughed as he uncapped the jars of pasta sauce. "That wouldn't help. Guster has no backbone. Spencer can wheedle a secret out of him in no time flat."

"Oh come on, Gus is the 'Vault of Secrets.'"

"Bullcrunch." He poured the contents of the sauce jars over the meat in the pan, then uncorked a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and poured a measure into each jar, recapped them, and shook them up. Then he dumped this mixture into the pan.

"Carlton. You just put…_wine_…in a sauce you're going to feed to an eight year old," Juliet said, wide-eyed.

He looked at her, faintly incredulous. "O'Hara. The alcohol cooks out of it. I assure you, not even an eight year old could get so much as a mild buzz from my pasta sauce. It just adds a little flavor."

"Mom puts port in her sauce," Iris said.

"I guess I proved I'm not a cook," Juliet said.

He stopped the microwave and opened the lid of the blue plastic thing, careful of the steam, and stirred the noodles with a pasta fork. Then he closed the lid and restarted the microwave. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out several blocks of cheese.

"What's the cheese for?" Juliet asked.

"The sauce," he said.

"You put cheese in your spaghetti sauce?" she said.

"Yes, it's delicious. I'll put some extra garlic and oregano in, too. I always start from a pre-made sauce but I doctor it up. And no, I don't go into anaphylactic shock."

Juliet's eyebrow shot to her hairline. "Why would you?"

"Because I'm allergic to mint."

"You put _mint_ in your spaghetti sauce?" Juliet said.

Iris giggled. "Oregano is in the mint family, Detective O'Hara. So is basil."

"Okay. So I'm…_really_ not a cook."

"Anyway, I've never had a reaction to either one, and they tell me to be careful because it always _could _happen, but I take my chances for good spaghetti sauce," Lassiter said. He took a grater and began grating cheeses into the sauce.

"But what happens if you _do_ have a reaction?" Juliet asked. "That could be dangerous, couldn't it?"

"I have my EpiPen."

"You have to carry an EpiPen?" Juliet said.

"You'd be surprised how easy it is to stumble into something flavored with mint. Just try finding toothpaste that's not mint-flavored sometime."

"What _do_ you do about toothpaste?" Juliet asked.

"I have to buy cinnamon-flavored. It's not always easy to find."

He continued dumping things into the sauce, herbs and cheeses. The microwave beeped as the noodles finished up. Lassiter gave the sauce one last stir and turned down the heat. He took the blue plastic thing out of the microwave, carefully because it was hot, and used the lid to strain the water out of the noodles into the sink, then took the lid off and dumped the noodles into the sauce.

"I do hope you like your spaghetti mixed in," Lassiter said, as he stirred the noodles into the sauce. "If there's one thing I cannot abide it is a naked noodle."

Someone knocked at the door. Juliet was seized with a terrible certainty that it was Shawn. He'd have had to drive fast to get here in the time since her call, but on his motorcycle that wouldn't have been hard to do. Lassiter left the kitchen and went to answer.

"Why on earth did you knock? Did you lose your key?" she heard him say.

"No, but I saw the green Beetle in the parking garage and remembered seeing it the night Detective O'Hara came over, so I didn't want to barge in on you if you had company." It was Lincoln speaking. Juliet was relieved.

"We were just about to sit down to spaghetti, if you're hungry," Lassiter said.

"What's that on TV? Is that…_Fraggle Rock?"_

"I had it on for Iris. My boss's daughter. O'Hara and I are watching her for the night. Chief Vick's aunt broke her hip and is in the hospital in San Diego."

"How old is this little ankle-biter?"

"She's eight. And she's very smart, so watch your mouth."

Lincoln followed his brother into the kitchen. "Well hello, Detective O'Hara. And hello to you, Iris. Nice to meet you. I'm Lincoln. I'm this big lug's little brother. As you can see, I got the looks in the family."

Iris' sharp brown eyes were huge. "I'll say. You _look_ exactly like Detective Lassiter."

"But…_better_, right?"

Lassiter spooned up a plate of spaghetti and put it down on the table. "Sit down and eat and leave the kid alone."

Everybody sat down at the dining room table with their plates of pasta. Iris twirled up noodles. "Yummy. This is _really good spaghetti, _Detective Lassiter," she said.

"It should be. CJ learned how to cook pasta from an old Italian woman in our neighborhood," Lincoln said.

"Not that I actually follow her recipe," Lassiter said.

"How did a little Irish boy get an old Italian woman to teach him how to cook spaghetti?" Juliet asked.

"Our church sponsored a spaghetti supper every October," Lassiter said. "All the old Italian women from the neighborhood got together and cooked spaghetti and garlic bread and pie. It was old Mrs. Cacciopo who taught me. She said the stuff they made at the church supper was a pale imitation of real spaghetti. She kinda wanted to know what an Irish boy wanted to know about cooking spaghetti, too, but I told her I'm one-sixteenth Italian. It was good enough for her."

"Do they still do that? The annual spaghetti supper, I mean," Lincoln said.

"No. All the old Italian families have pretty well died out," Lassiter said.

"Well, they never made spaghetti like this, anyway," Lincoln said, and slurped up a noodle.

"You're a good cook, Carlton," Juliet said.

"Thanks."

"This is even better than the spaghetti my mom makes," Iris said.

"Thanks Iris, and…I won't tell her you said that, either," Lassiter said, smiling.

* * *

**A/N:** My brother caved. My sister called him up, bawling, and he crumbled like a stale cookie. So she's coming to live with me. Tim is concerned about how I'll deal with it, but not concerned enough to offer space in his own, much larger, house. If anybody is less likely to get along with Lori than I am, it's Tim. So don't be concerned if I go silent for awhile. My standard strategy for dealing with my sister is to lock myself away in my bedroom and avoid her as much as possible. Hopefully, this will only be for a couple of weeks. I honestly don't think I could tolerate more than that. If it goes longer, I'll probably go silent for other reasons, like say I'm in a mental hospital, or prison.


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. Definitely contains spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

**To LassietFanGrl1: **I'd love to tell my sister to move along down the road, but she is in trouble and she is family. I can bide for a short time. There's no chance she'll stay too long, she doesn't like me any better than I like her. I'm not entirely sure why she can't make any other arrangement, but, as long as she doesn't expect me to babysit her kids, we'll be fine. If she _does_ expect that, she's got another think coming. As to your suggestion about a _Supernatural _fic; I'm afraid I've never watched the show, even though I heard Tim Omundson appeared on an episode. I just don't watch very much TV, and even _Psych_ was something I happened upon accidentally. I honestly can't say that I watch anything else, though I used to watch _House_ and _Law & Order: Criminal Intent_. And now that _Psych_ is no more, I don't watch anything. I'm not sure when the last time was I watched TV but it's been awhile. I don't know why I even waste my money on it, but I guess it's nice that it's there when I want it. I think the new season of _Tanked_ has started. I might watch that, when I think of it. I like the fish.

**To TheShulesLovinPsycho:** I will lock myself in with my computer, but I don't have home internet, so I won't be able to update if I can't get out of the house to go to the library. Frankly, I don't trust my sister well enough to leave her alone in my house. She'd better be out all day looking for a job and a place to live, though. I'll do what I can.

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Music**

"What's that you've got there, Iris? Isn't that CJ's tooth?" Lincoln asked.

Iris touched the megalodon tooth sitting beside her plate. "Detective Lassiter gave it to me. Because I like sharks."

"He _gave_ that to you?" Lincoln said, eyes wide. "Wow. You must be pretty special, Iris. I remember when he bought that tooth. It was just about his favorite thing in the world. I don't think that changed just because he bought a nicer one."

"It didn't, exactly," Lassiter said. "Feels right to pass it along, though. Iris _is_ special. She's Iris."

"You held me when I was first born," Iris said. "Mom told me."

Lincoln looked at his brother in surprise. "What the heck were _you_ doing there? She's your boss's daughter, right? I mean, what kind of relationship do you have with your boss?"

"It's a long story, Lincoln, and purely accidental that I was there instead of Iris's father. But it is kind of a special thing, to hold somebody who's brand-new to the world. You were a tiny little baby, Iris, but you had a great set of lungs."

"So you like sharks, huh?" Lincoln said to her. "I'm a surfer, so I kinda have a 'thing' about sharks, but I will admit they're pretty awesome animals. Hey, wait a minute, I just thought of something. Hold on, I'll be right back."

He left the dining room and disappeared into the guest room, emerging a short time later with something in his fingers. "Here. It's not nearly as impressive, and not nearly as ancient, but you might find it cool regardless."

He laid on the dining table next to Iris's megalodon tooth a shiny white shark tooth less than a third the size. "Great white. I keep 'em as a way of kind of thumbing my nose at fate. For you it looks like the start of a nice shark tooth collection."

"Wow, thank you," Iris said. She held up both teeth for a side-by-side comparison. "Why is the white shark's tooth white while the megalodon tooth is black?"

"The white shark's tooth isn't fossilized," Lassiter said. "The megalodon tooth is something like twenty million years old. It's not really a tooth anymore. The material of the original tooth has been replaced by other minerals."

"I can't believe how much _bigger_ it is," Iris said.

"That's not even a really big megalodon tooth," Lassiter said. "Actually, my _un_broken one isn't all that big, either. I've seen teeth in museums that are longer than my hand and as broad across the base as both my hands put together."

Juliet shuddered. "And of course the shark had hundreds of these teeth in its mouth, row upon row."

"Megalodon could swallow a surfer in one gulp," Lassiter said, with a sideways smile at Lincoln.

"Thank God it doesn't exist anymore," Lincoln said.

Lassiter made his eyes grow huge. "You never know what's out there in that ocean, Lincoln. It could be waiting, just under the surface, hungry for a little Irish."

"Are you trying to give me nightmares?" Lincoln asked.

"Every now and then, Lincoln, I think it's wise to stop and reconsider the wisdom of spending your working life standing on a little piece of foam core out in the middle of the ocean."

"You do realize I'm statistically more likely to be struck by lightning than to be eaten by a shark?" Lincoln said.

"You do realize that, much like golfing in a rainstorm, you greatly _increase_ your statistical probabilities by engaging in activities that put you in close conjunction with hungry sharks? Look at me, Lincoln. I can guarantee you that there is absolutely _no statistical possibility whatsoever _that I will _ever _be eaten by a shark."

"That's because you never go into the ocean!"

"Exactly."

"Never?" Iris asked.

"Not once," Lassiter said. "I've been out on it, in boats, but I've never been _in_ it. I'm not much of a swimmer."

"You can't _swim?" _she asked, appalled.

"No, I can swim," Lassiter said. "I just…don't. I kind of have a natural aversion to swim trunks and other varieties of short pants. My legs never need to be on display."

"That's too bad. I bet you have _nice _legs," Juliet said, and Lassiter blushed.

"I would assume his legs look exactly like _my_ legs, only whiter," Lincoln said. "Still, I do think I'd probably have a heart attack if I saw my big brother in a pair of board shorts. I don't think I've ever seen him in short pants."

"You haven't," Lassiter said, a little coldly.

"Are you scared of sharks, Detective Lassiter?" Iris asked.

"Not really. I know that the chances of being bitten are pretty low even if I went into the ocean. No, it's really far more accurate to say I don't swim because I'm scared of _shorts."_

Iris giggled. "What are your feelings about _snakes?" _she asked.

"Fascinating creatures, but I don't really want a live one in my house. When I was a kid I had a taxidermied rattlesnake under glass that my friend Hank gave me, but I lost it when my house burned."

"Oh! I would love to have something like that, but mom says I shouldn't hold my breath," Iris said. "I _love_ snakes."

"Are you just a little bit of a tomboy, Iris, or are you a budding zoologist?" Lassiter asked.

Iris shrugged. "I don't _think_ I'm a tomboy, exactly. I don't know. I've thought about doing something with animals when I grow up, but I'm not sure what."

"Well, you've got plenty of time to decide. Maybe you'll be a herpetologist, or a marine biologist."

"How long did it take you to decide what you wanted to be when you grew up?" Iris asked.

"Well, I know how _old_ I was, but I can't honestly say I gave it a lot of thought," Lassiter said. "I was eleven when I decided I wanted to be a policeman, and in eleventh _grade_ when I decided I wanted to be a detective, but the decision was kind of easy to come to. I never really felt like there were a lot of other options open to me."

"There weren't," Lincoln said. "CJ was _born_ to be a cop."

Lassiter blushed. "Father Murphy, our old parish priest, said it was my calling, so maybe I was."

"You _never_ wanted to be _anything_ else?" Iris asked.

"Well now, I didn't say that. For awhile there, when I was at university, I thought about…maybe…transferring out to a school where I could study…paleontology."

Juliet stared at him, and so too did Lincoln. "I never knew that," Lincoln said.

"I can't even imagine you _considering_ such a thing," Juliet said.

"Well, I've always been interested in prehistory, and…a good friend of mine enrolled in a school with a good paleontology program, so there was that draw."

"What good friend did _you_ have besides Kenny Marshall?" Lincoln asked. "Oh wait, I know. _Julie McCartney."_

"Who was Julie McCartney?" Juliet asked.

"An old friend," Lassiter said.

"An old _girl_friend," Lincoln corrected. "Childhood sweethearts, really. They were together from, what…sixth or seventh grade on? I really thought they'd end up getting married but she left Santa Barbara to study - guess what I just remembered? - _paleontology._ I never knew she asked CJ to go along with her."

"She didn't, not exactly," Lassiter said, blushing again. "She just said that I could…I could study criminology just about anywhere."

"This is true. So why didn't you go?" Juliet asked.

"I just…couldn't leave Santa Barbara," he said, very quietly.

"What he means is, he couldn't leave _us," _Lincoln said. "Or more particularly, Lulu. I can't believe you gave up a girl you were seemingly _very well suited to _just so you could be Big Brother. She was a _varsity cheerleader_, for crying out loud."

"If I had gone, I never would have felt right about it," Lassiter said.

"CJ, you have an overdeveloped sense of responsibility and it's cost you a _lot," _Lincoln said.

"There's always a price," Lassiter said, very, very quietly. "There's a price to everything."

"Having brothers and sisters should never cost you the girl you're in _love_ with," Lincoln said.

"Look, if I thought the price was too high I wouldn't have made the choice I made," Lassiter said. "Lulu maybe won't talk to mom anymore, but at least she never really had to see just how unbelievably ugly our family could get. That's _worth it, _to me. And I think we've wandered far enough off the original subject, which is what _Iris_ wants to be when she grows up."

Lincoln just shook his shaggy head sadly, and Juliet was trying not to cry. Somehow it didn't surprise her to learn that his family had, even inadvertently, cost Lassiter the girl who might have been The One. She thought about the two men in her life, Shawn and Carlton, and how one seemed to have led a charmed life while the other seemed…cursed. Everything that came so easily for Shawn, so easily that nothing was highly valued, maybe not even her, though perhaps she flattered herself when she thought that Shawn had had to fight for her, were things that Carlton had to fight for tooth and nail. And mostly be left bloody and broken and alone and unhappy.

Lassiter pushed up from the table. "This is depressing. You know what I like to do? I like to listen to music while I wash the dishes. Iris, why don't you go put something on? You can tune the radio in to whatever station you want, or pick out something from my CDs over on the west wall of the living room. I might have something you'd like."

"Do you have any Justin Bieber?" Iris asked.

Lassiter smiled. "Sorry, afraid I'm not in his target demographic and never have been, never having been an eight year old girl."

"Taylor Swift?"

"No, afraid not. I've got some pop music, though, so go and look, why don't you?"

Iris ran out of the dining room and in a few moments her voice floated back to where Lassiter was gathering up the dishes. "Why is there a big blank spot on the shelf?"

"Somebody borrowed my Warren Zevon albums, and hasn't brought 'em back yet," Lassiter called back.

"It's a lot to listen to," Juliet said, defensively.

"No rush," he said.

"Who's Warren Zevon?" Iris asked.

"You probably wouldn't like him, Iris. Apart from being kind of…_different, _he's dead."

"Ew."

Lassiter was running the water into the sink when Iris made a loud exclamation in the living room, and after a moment, music began to play. The song was "Are We All We Are" from the album _The Truth About Love, _by, of all artists, P!nk. Juliet nudged Lassiter's arm as he stood elbow-deep in suds at the sink.

"P!nk? Really?" she asked.

"Hey, P!nk kicks all kind of hind-end," Lassiter said. "And, she's kind of cute."

"But Carlton, she's so _girly."_

"In the most _kick-ass _way possible," he said.

A few more minutes, and a couple of songs later, Iris wandered back into the kitchen. "You don't have any Phil Collins," she accused.

"That's right, I don't. I might on vinyl, but I'm not even sure of that. Is that a deal-breaker?"

Iris shook her head. "Mom makes me listen to Phil Collins all the time. You don't have any Michael Jackson, either."

"I do on vinyl, but just the _Thriller _album. And that was a gift from an ex-girlfriend, not something I ever really wanted. Never got much of anything out of the King of Pop, personally."

"You don't have the Beatles," Iris said.

"I do, but on vinyl. I like them, but not enough to repurchase their stuff every time they come out with a new format."

"You have a death metal group sitting next to Roy Orbison on your shelf."

"You can identify death metal groups?" Lassiter asked, wide-eyed.

"I know Dethklok, from _Metalocalypse_," Iris said. "I've heard of them on Adult Swim."

He cocked his head in her direction disbelievingly. "What are you doing watching Adult Swim?"

"Mom watches _Squidbillies. _The TV is right next to my bedroom wall."

Karen Vick watches a cartoon show about criminal, inbred, backwoods squid? Lassiter and Juliet both stood in stunned disbelief.

Iris wasn't finished discussing the arrangement of Lassiter's music library. "You have _Mozart _next to _Meat Loaf," _she said, and it was clear from her tone that she considered this a sign of mental illness.

"Well, sometimes I'm in the mood for Mozart, and sometimes I'm in the mood for Meat Loaf," Lassiter said. "What of it?"

"I have friends who claim to like 'all kinds' of music, but they usually just like one or two different kinds," Iris said. "You really seem to like _all kinds _of music. You have Eminem and Megadeth, for crying out loud. You've got Chopin next to Wayne Toups and Zydecajun, whatever _that_ is."

"Zydeco music. Hey, don't knock it 'til you've tried it," Lassiter said, catching Juliet's eye roll.

"You've got Big & Rich and Garth Brooks and you've got Ozzy Osbourne and Metallica, all mixed in among Buddy Holly and the Mamas and the Papas and Aretha Franklin," Iris said. "And you've got James Blunt and All-American Rejects and Blue October. Do you really listen to _all_ of it?"

"I listen to whatever I'm in the mood for," he said. "If I own it, it's a safe bet that I've been in the mood for it."

"Why Carlton, if I didn't know better I'd say you were…open-minded," Juliet said.

"I'm _musically omnivorous, _thank you very much," he said. "It's not a crime, is it? I feel like I'm getting the third degree from an eight year old."

"I just don't expect grownups to have very varied taste in music," Iris said. "Mom basically listens to Phil Collins, and that's _it."_

Juliet thought of Shawn, who thought himself musically adventurous but basically only listened to eighties pop and the most obscure possible indie albums. She couldn't help but ask, "Do you have any Thompson Twins, Carlton?"

He gave her A Look. "No, I do not, not even on vinyl. I found virtually all eighties pop completely intolerable, with but very few exceptions. The songs your boyfriend _adores_ make me want to toss my cookies. I advocate the immediate execution of anyone who plays 'Take On Me' for any reason whatsoever."

"Oh, that song's not _that_ bad," Lincoln said.

"It makes me physically ill," Lassiter said. "I can't stand it."

Lincoln helped Lassiter wash the dishes, against Lassiter's protests, because as Lincoln said, "You're letting me live here rent free, the least I can do is wash dishes with you." Juliet and Iris sat together at the island counter and watched while the music played throughout the condo.

"So you listen to P!nk," Juliet mused, "but not Taylor Swift?"

"P!nk has chops," Lassiter said, over his shoulder. "Taylor Swift just sounds to me like every other little adolescent girl on the radio. Besides, I think liking Taylor Swift would be kind of creepy for a man my age."

"But you like P!nk," Juliet said.

"P!nk is a woman in her thirties," Lassiter said. "That's not nearly so creepy. Though maybe _you_ think it is."

"I don't think that's creepy," Juliet said, blushing a little. "You're only forty-five."

"What did Lewis Carroll write? 'The further off from England, the nearer is to France?' I'm inching steadily closer to fifty."

"Oh, you're a long way off."

"I'm nearly there, kid. And snow is on the mountain."

"It's _not_ snow, it's just a little salt," Juliet said. "And I happen to like it."

"I bet I'm pure gray in five years."

"Oh, you won't be. Your hair's still mostly black, and it hasn't changed that much over the last five years."

"My sideburns have gone white," Lassiter refuted.

"Yeah, but it looks fine. Doesn't it, Lincoln?" Juliet said. Lincoln turned around and looked at her.

"You're asking me?" He pointed to his own hair. "I hate to point it out but you know this color is not entirely natural, right?"

Juliet sighed in exasperation. "Iris, can I get a ruling?"

"I like Detective Lassiter's hair," Iris said. "And it always looks great on TV. It's…distinguished."

"Exactly," Juliet said. She held her hand up to Iris and Iris slapped five with her.

Lassiter snorted. "Distinguished. Practically fossilized."

"Now stop that," Juliet said. "You always find something to put yourself down over. Just cut it out."

They finished up the dishes and Juliet said that she and Iris would get ready for bed. "I've got a couple shades of nail polish in my purse, Iris. We can paint each other's nails and talk."

Lassiter smacked his brother on the arm. "I'm bunkin' with you tonight."

Lincoln shrugged. "Won't be the first time I've shared a bed with you."


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. Definitely contains spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

**A/N: **Trout talked me in to letting him exist, briefly, in this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Slumber Party**

Teeth freshly brushed, blonde hair braided back, cute as a button in her Tinker Bell nightgown, Iris sat cross-legged on Lassiter's bed while Juliet underwent her own nighttime preparations in the bathroom. She had packed her great white tooth in her backpack already, because it was sharp and pointy, but she kept hold of the broken megalodon tooth and apparently intended to sleep with it.

"Don't lose it," Juliet cautioned, before rendering herself speechless with her toothbrush. "I think it's pretty special that Detective Lassiter gave it to you."

"Yeah, it is," Iris said, turning it in her hands idly. "Detective O'Hara, do you…_like_…Detective Lassiter?"

Juliet spit into the sink and came out of the bathroom dressed in a plain pink t-shirt and a pair of _Family Guy _boxer shorts featuring Stewie Griffin. "Of course I like him. He's my partner, and pretty much my best friend."

"No, I mean, do you _like_ him?"

Juliet took her meaning and grinned. She closed the door. "Yeah, kinda. Well, how could I not? He's kind of…_funny-looking_, and I don't mean that in a bad way. It's just…he kind of looks like Tony Randall or Mr. Bean, but…he also kind of looks like Cary Grant or George Clooney. And he's a good guy, even if he is a little…ornery."

"Mom says he's bad-tempered, but she also says you can't find a more genuinely decent person."

"He's got a temper, all right, but he's also got a big heart. He just doesn't like to let it show. Is your mom calling him 'bad-tempered' the reason you always shied away from him? 'Cause that always kind of hurt him, I think."

Iris shrugged. "I just didn't know how to talk to him. Mom calling him 'bad-tempered' made me think…maybe…he wouldn't like me. I wanted him to like me."

"I think he likes you very much, Iris."

Iris smiled. "I see that now. I don't know why I wasn't braver, before. It's just…I saw him on TV a lot, and I knew he was there when I was born, so he was always kind of…_special."_

"He's also pretty cute, isn't he?" Juliet said, mischievously.

Iris blushed. "Yeah. I can't believe how much like him his brother looks, but I think Detective Lassiter is just a little bit cuter."

"The salt and pepper, right?"

Iris giggled. "Right."

Juliet rummaged through her purse until she came up with two bottles of nail polish. She seated herself cross-legged on the other side of the bed and let Iris pick her color. She chose the light pearl pink. Juliet cautioned her not to get any on the bedspread and began to paint her nails. Juliet asked Iris if there were any cute boys in her school, and they talked as the enamel dried.

Across the hall, in the guest room, Lassiter bedded down on the extreme edge of the guest bed, while Lincoln, clad in flannel pajama bottoms borrowed from his brother since he _typically _slept only in his underwear, climbed in on the other side.

"Can I make an observation?" Lincoln asked, just after turning out the light.

Lassiter sighed. "If you must."

"It's a crying shame that you don't have any kids of your own."

"How so?"

"There is a shortage of good fathers in the world. You not being one is a complete waste. Of course, you already raised three kids, so maybe you don't really want to go through all that again."

Lassiter sighed again. "If life had brought me the opportunity, I would have loved to be a father. Fate didn't run that way for me."

"It's not too late."

"Ha!"

"It's _not_. Good God, Tony Randall had a kid when he was in his seventies."

"And then he promptly died."

"You're not at that point, yet."

"I _am_ at the point where I'd be crazy to try raising a kid. Sweet Lady Justice, I'd be lucky to see it graduate."

"Oh come on. You know as well as I do that everyone who didn't drink themselves to death in our family led long, healthy lives well into their nineties or even past a hundred."

"The opportunity to father a child isn't going to present itself tomorrow, and the clock keeps ticking away," Lassiter said. "Besides, I may not be the alcoholic that so many of our shorter-lived relatives were, but I do have an addiction that's just as likely to kill me."

"Oh yeah? What addiction is that?"

"Work."

Lincoln sighed, but didn't try to refute him. "Go to sleep," Lassiter said, and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders.

. . .

It was sometime near midnight, and Iris was sleeping soundly, when Juliet gave up on the idea of getting to sleep.

It wasn't that the bed wasn't comfortable, because it was. But she was on Carlton's side of the bed - she knew that by the clock radio on the nightstand as well as the water ring showing where he tended to set a glass of water - and even though she could tell the sheets were freshly washed they and the pillowcase smelled of…well…_him_. Gunpowder, leather, and something distinctly outdoorsy, like fresh air. It was unexpectedly intimate, to lie there with that smell in her nose and the warmth of the blankets all around her. Like touching him in the Stingray, clearly she was dealing with a previously unexamined attraction to him. Coupled with her admissions to Iris, she was having trouble keeping prurient thoughts out of her mind.

She got up, careful not to disturb Iris, who snuggled deeper into her pillow and clutched her megalodon tooth closer to herself but didn't wake. Juliet left the bedroom and entered the living room, where she found the TV on very low and Lassiter sitting on the loveseat.

"Can't sleep?" he asked.

"Strange environment, you know. I can't sleep in hotel rooms, either," Juliet said. "Why are _you_ up?"

"When Lincoln was little, and we shared a bed, he kicked," Lassiter said. "Now he's six-one, and he still kicks. It's not so cute anymore."

Juliet laughed. "What'cha watching?"

"Three Stooges."

"_You're _watching The Three Stooges?" she asked.

"Aren't you getting tired of being continually surprised by my tastes?"

"You would think it would stop after awhile, but The Three Stooges? You hate the way Shawn and Gus act, and together the three of you could go on tour as a tribute team."

"There's a couple of big differences between the Spencer and Guster Show and The Three Stooges. For one thing, Moe, Larry, and Curly don't prank call me at two o'clock in the morning. For another, when I'm sick of The Three Stooges' antics, I can turn them_ off."_

She was abashed, and stepped toward the loveseat carefully. "These prank calls…they happen often?"

"Semi-regularly. But you know that. You helped 'em do it."

"I didn't actually help. I just…failed to stop. And only the one time. If I'd known it was a regular thing, I would have stopped them, Carlton. Honestly. I should have, anyway. There was…a lot of stupid in the air that night, and I guess I succumbed."

"It's illegal. It's also childish and mean."

"I know. But I thought it was a one-time thing, something we'd all laugh about later."

"Why would I laugh about being harassed, O'Hara? Why? Even if it _was_ a one-time thing?"

"I've been…very stupid, with regards to Shawn, for a long time. I won't let him treat you that way anymore."

"I'm worried less about the way he treats me than the way he treats you."

"Well, he's been more respectful since we had our 'discussion,' but, frankly, it's pretty obvious it doesn't come naturally. I don't know how long he can hang on."

"How long are _you_ going to hang on to a guy to whom 'respect' doesn't come naturally?" Lassiter asked. "You deserve so much better."

"I don't know. Maybe I'm just marking time with Shawn. Maybe I always was." She wandered over to the cabinet where Lassiter kept his CDs. "Iris was impressed with your collection. Let's see what else you listen to, eh? Frank Sinatra - figured that. Willie Nelson. Who else would you stick right next to your Frank Sinatra albums? Neon Trees. 'Weird Al' Yankovic. Vic Damone. _There's _musical whiplash for you. Jimmy Buffet. Gordon Lightfoot. Mumford and Sons. Lynrd Skynrd. Billy Joel. Adele. Nile. What on earth is Nile?"

"It's hard to say. I can't actually understand a word they sing - or rather, grumble. I think it qualifies as death metal."

"You can't understand it, but you listen to it anyway?"

"If I'm in the right mood."

"And you have this death metal group situated right next to several albums by who, now? _Bette Midler."_

"I don't believe in musical segregation, O'Hara."

She chuckled and came back to sit down beside him on the loveseat. "Don't think I didn't notice that you have one singular _Lady Gaga _album secreted away between Hank Williams, Sr. and Jason Mraz."

"It's only surprising that I just have the one so far. The woman is a whackaloon but she's got a decent voice and I like most of the songs I've heard her sing, even when she lapses into some other language I'm fairly sure she can't actually speak. I refuse to discount the talents of an artist just because I don't agree with their politics or their fashion sense. I've got Katy Perry, too. I suppose you're going to tease me about _that."_

"It just seems _seriously_ out of character."

"It's really more unusual for me _not_ to like a song or an artist," Lassiter said. "The only Katy Perry song I don't like is the one about kissing a girl and liking it. Not that there's anything specifically wrong with the song - I've liked it when _I've_ kissed girls, after all - but I can't hear it without thinking she's singing, 'I kissed a squirrel and I liked it.'"

Juliet laughed again. "So I could turn on the radio right now to any station whatsoever and pretty soon you'd be singing along?"

He shook his head. "Not necessarily. For one thing, I can't keep the lyrics straight most of the time. And then…ever since the song about waiting for 'two pink lines' on a pregnancy test, and the overabundance of Taylor Swift songs, and the novelty song about picking ticks off a girl, and John Rich from Big & Rich going solo with his high-pitched voice, I haven't really been able to listen to contemporary country music. I've developed something of a twang intolerance. It's even kind of hard for me to listen to country singers I've always liked, like George Strait or Alan Jackson. My liking for Garth Brooks seems unaffected by this peccadillo, and the classic artists like Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson."

"So you don't do country."

He shook his head again. "Not anymore. Maybe I'll come back to it once the revulsion from those things I mentioned wears off and they've had time to redeem themselves."

"Iris said you have Eminem on your shelves. You like rap?"

"When they're not talking about killing the police or behaving criminally. I have to be 'in a mood,' really."

"What kind of mood?" Juliet asked.

"A rap mood. Kind of a_primal_mood, really. It's not so different from my 'death metal' mood. The common _subject matter _bothers me, but the rhythm and the pulse does something for me."

"Don't be offended, Carlton, but your expansive tastes render you…kind of _weird."_

"I know. I don't really care. I'd rather be thought weird than limit myself to a handful of artists just because everybody thinks being truly eclectic is…different."

"It is _different, _but it's definitely _interesting."_

"It's certainly not boring. I never get bored of my music. I like too much of it and have too much to choose from. You haven't even seen my vinyl, and I've still got eight-tracks and cassettes, too. I could open up a music store with just the inventory I have on hand. I don't even like to think about how much money I have invested in all of it over the years, even though I got most of my vinyl and eight-tracks secondhand."

"Do you have such a thing as an MP3 player?" Juliet asked.

"Nope. For one thing, I have no desire to purchase my entire music library over again. For another, I consider it an unusually long-lived technological misstep. I expect the iPod to go the way of the eight-track sooner or later."

She giggled. "Don't hold your breath, Carlton."

"I won't. My history proves I don't know much about what is and is not a technological misstep, as evidenced by the fact that I actually bought and kept eight-tracks."

"You have a functional eight-track player?" Juliet asked.

"Yes, built into my hi fi, actually. And you can see my stereo has a cassette player. I switched _most_ of my cassettes over to CD, but I still have a small collection of them. Mostly Elton John, oddly enough. And I have a lot of old-time radio programs on cassette tape, like _The Shadow _and _Arch Obler's Lights Out."_

"My mom had a bunch of old radio programs on tape," Juliet said. _"Fibber McGee and Molly _and _Amos and Andy._ Stuff like that."

"I've got those guys, too."

Juliet sat there and discussed music and such with Lassiter as though it were not the strangest situation in which she had ever found herself, sitting talking quietly with the man who disturbed her sleep with thoughts of how he would feel wrapped around her. She tried to keep her thoughts focused on what she was saying, but his proximity on the little sofa made it difficult. She kept thinking about seeing him with his shirt off at his mother's house, and wondering whether all that chest hair was coarse or soft.

"So you don't judge artists based on their political leanings, eh?" Juliet asked, tearing her mind away from that topic. "What about political songs? Like that one P!nk did, against Bush."

"'Dear Mr. President?' I actually like that song. I can't fault anyone for finding fault with the Bush administration. That man didn't belong as manager of the night shift at Starbucks, let alone as President of the United States."

"Carlton…are you saying you're a closet _liberal?"_

"O'Hara. My mom is a lesbian. I work in a traditionally male-dominated field alongside and _beneath_ women I actually have the temerity to _respect_. My politics do not allow me to fit the standard definition of a 'liberal,' but I am far, _far_ from a radical conservative. I vote for whoever I perceive as the best person for the job, and unfortunately, it's quite often extremely hard to pick between rotten apples. I advocate them putting a third choice on all ballots, 'None of the Above,' and if a majority of people choose that option they have to do the whole damned election over again with entirely new candidates. It would be slow going, but maybe we'd actually put someone decent in office for a change."

"So you're actually a _moderate," _Juliet said.

"I don't think so," he said, slowly. "Politically I have leanings on both sides of the liberal/conservative seesaw. I think it might be more accurate to call me a liberal conservative or perhaps a conservative liberal. I'm just a little too radical in both directions to be a true moderate."

"So what you really are is a _contradiction," _Juliet said. "I think I kind of always knew that."

"But I'm not a Starburst, so do not say I'm 'chewy like a solid yet juicy like a liquid.'"

It might have been meant to make her laugh, but somehow the slogan only served to crop up the most prurient of mental images. She shook them off with difficulty.

"So is this what you do when you can't sleep?" she asked. "Watch The Three Stooges?"

"Sometimes. Or I watch Adult Swim. Or I play video games."

"It surprises me that you have a PS3," Juliet said. "I would have thought you'd have a Wii."

He shrugged. "I know it doesn't have to be, but I think of a Wii as a group activity. Pretending to bowl or play tennis alone is…kind of depressing. Not to mention, I'd really rather just go out to a bowling alley and bowl for real. But again, doing it alone is kind of depressing."

"You don't have to go out bowling alone," Juliet said.

"Who would I bowl with? I don't cultivate off-work relationships. One could make the claim that I don't _exactly_ cultivate _on_-work relationships."

"None of your Civil War reenactors group bowl?"

"I wouldn't know if they did. I don't really hang out with any of them, socially."

"_I _like to bowl," she said.

"You do?"

"I do. Quite a lot, actually. And I frequently don't have anybody to bowl with. Shawn made the claim to me long ago that he's an avid bowler, but that turned out to be a lie. He can barely keep his ball out of the gutter."

"Appropriate, since that's generally where his _mind_ is," Lassiter said.

"It really is," Juliet said, considering. "Do you know what I see now in hindsight? He really went a long way out of his way in the early days of our acquaintance to make me feel like you were destined to hit on me, and all along, it was _Shawn_ who was oiling up to me. In some pretty offensive ways, now that I look back on it."

"He made you think I would hit on you by telling you about Lucinda," Lassiter said, quietly.

"Yes."

"I _never_ hit on Lucinda. Honestly, I don't know how Lucinda and I ever _happened_. There didn't seem to be much of a process to it. One minute we were partners, separated by a professional distance, and the next…"

"You were together," Juliet said.

"Yeah. My marriage had been on ice for more than a year - much longer than I admitted to anyone, even Lucinda, at the time, and Victoria was dating, and that was hard to take, and I knew it was wrong, and I knew it was unprofessional, and I knew it was bad for both of us, but…I was weak, and it was all so easy. _Too_ easy. I still don't know how it happened, or even who made the first move."

Juliet moved closer to him on the loveseat and put her arm around his shoulders. "It's okay, you know? I understand."

"At least _one_ of us does," he said. He seemed quite glum now. "I put a black stain not only on _my_ career but on _hers_. And then she got killed. Killed because _I_ got her transferred out of Santa Barbara."

"I think Lucinda is just as culpable as you are, Carlton," Juliet said, giving his shoulders a squeeze. "And what happened to her in Ventura could just as easily have happened in Santa Barbara."

"But it didn't. And it _is_ my fault she got transferred, because it was my fault our relationship got outed the way it did. I…liked her hair."

Juliet cocked a quizzical eyebrow. "Huh?"

"Her hair. I couldn't keep my hands off it. I touched her ponytail when she sat down to interrogate Spencer that first time we brought him in for questioning. I don't know how he saw it, but he _must _have. _That's_ how he knew we were a couple."

"And that's what made _you_ think he wasn't really psychic."

"That, and the fact that I don't _believe_ in psychics, yes."

Juliet mulled it over for a moment. "Do you think he could have seen it in the two-way mirror behind the two of you?"

"I had thought I was blocking the reflection, but it seems possible to me."

She mulled some more. "If that's true, then…Shawn has been lying all this time."

"That would seem to be the case."

"Shawn has been lying…to _all of us. All this time._ He passed a _polygraph examination _on a _boldfaced lie."_

"Is it really this easy? I admit I have an idea how he figured out one of his first 'psychic predictions' and you stop believing in his psychic hokum? Why didn't anybody _else_ believe me?"

"He just…_sees_ things. _Little_ things. Minor details. And he puts them together in his mind and comes up with big, dramatic conclusions. He does…exactly what _we_ do…only maybe just a little bit better…and he _lies about it."_

"Not that I'm defending him, but he really can't keep his business going any other way. He can't be a cop or get a PI license because of that felony on his record. It wouldn't even bother me that he's lying, because hell, all psychic detectives are liars, and he does get results, and I wouldn't mind so much putting him to use for the department if he didn't waste so much of our time on flashy reveals and giving us the run around so he has time to scope evidence before we get to it. My God, the Leo Quinn debacle almost cost Vick and me our _jobs_. Mayor Swaggerty tried to bring in some consultant to get answers about what was going on in the department, a guy known for being absolutely brutal in his assessments of police departments, and if he hadn't gotten _hit by a truck _in Ojai we'd all probably have been out on our ears."

"Well, Vick has kind of clamped down on Shawn since then," Juliet said.

"Forgive me, I respect the hell out of Karen, but…too little, too late. We're just lucky Swaggerty decided to let it go for now."

Juliet put her other arm around Lassiter's shoulders, and buried her face against his neck. "God, I feel so stupid, so blinded. It seems so obvious now. Shawn really is a liar. He's everything you always said he was. Oh, Carlton, I'm sorry for every eye roll I ever gave you where Shawn was concerned."

"Is it really this easy for you to give up total faith in him?" he asked, unaccountably unsettled. If she gave up faith on Spencer so quickly, maybe she could give up faith in him, too. "I don't _know_ he saw me touch Lucinda's hair, I just suspect."

"Oh, he saw. That's what he does. He sees things that people think he can't. But I can't…really…_prove _that he's not psychic, can I? Not from this. So it really wouldn't do any good to tell Chief Vick. And if we _did_, and she believed it, what would happen? How many convictions would be called into question based on the evidence we got from Shawn claiming to be psychic?"

"For what it's worth, I'm pretty sure Karen knows he's not psychic. She's not stupid or naïve or gullible. I don't know why she lets him get away with so much, but nobody's perfect."

"But I was?" She fairly moaned it.

"You were a little naïve, O'Hara. Hell, you just a kid when you came here from Miami. And Spencer is a master con man. Don't feel bad about being taken in."

"But I'm a con man's daughter," she said. "I should have known better than to fall for a con."

"Shh, shh. It's okay," he murmured. She cried into his shoulder. "Here, listen…do you want to play _Dragon Age? _You said you never got to play all the way through. You can play my copy, and I promise you I won't be selling it back. Go on; I'll get the TV switched over from the DVD player. It'll take your mind off of things."

She sniffled and sat up. "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds…fun."

"Good. Here you go," he said, and handed her the wireless controller. "You can come over and play this whenever you want. I don't watch much TV."

"What are you going to do while I play?" she asked. "We can't _both_ play, can we?"

"I'm pretty sure _Dragon Age _is a single-player game only," he said. "In any event, I only have the one controller, so no duels for us, I'm afraid. I'll have fun watching you play, though. I'll be interested to hear what you think of it, and I've never really had anyone to discuss it with before."

"You can recruit Loghain into your party, right? I take it you recommend doing that?"

"You can't do that 'til just before the end, and it's up to you. You have to give up Alistair in order to get Loghain. No big loss to me, I think Alistair is whiny, and even though Loghain doesn't have the constitution stat that Alistair can get I think he soaks up damage and holds threat better, all while dealing better damage himself. But you might like Alistair. He is, I guess, kind of…cute. And it isn't hard to make the case that he's a better person than Loghain. Certainly _nicer_, at any rate."

"A little cute goes a long way, and a little cussedness can be attractive. I'll see how I feel if and when I get to that point."

Lassiter switched the TV over to the PS3's input and turned on the machine, and in a moment the red blood dragon swooped across the screen. Juliet realized that she already felt better. The question of what to do about Shawn had retreated with the prospect of a little mindless entertainment. She would have to deal with it soon, to _figure out _some way to deal with it, but for now, there was the night, and the game.


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. Definitely contains spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Three to a Seat**

Juliet created an elven female mage character, named her Juliet, and played _Dragon Age _for several hours, enjoying herself immensely despite the fact she was sitting next to a talking strategy guide in the form of her partner, who let her in on all the secrets of the game he knew of as she went along. He confessed to having purchased the official strategy guide, not having time to delve so deeply into a game on his own, and offered it for her use, but she preferred sitting and arguing with him about what to do and when to do it. Finally, after sunup but before the others were awake, he switched the TV back to the DVD/VCR player's input and they watched a VHS tape of Victor Borge in concert. Juliet enjoyed the music as much as the masterful musician's antics.

Iris got up about halfway through the tape and padded into the living room in her nightgown. "What are you watching?" she asked.

"A funny comedian," Juliet said. "He plays the piano and falls off the bench, then opens it up and pulls out a seatbelt."

Iris squatted down in front of the TV and watched the program critically for a few minutes. Then, very suddenly, she asked, "Is this guy dead? He's old, and the people in the audience are all dressed out of style for today."

Lassiter sighed, smiling. "Yes, Iris. I'm afraid Victor Borge _has_ shuffled off this mortal coil. Good perception on the audience, by the way. Maybe you'll be a detective."

"How can you stand to watch dead people? Doesn't it make you _sad?"_

"Death is just a part of life, Iris. How many people are there alive in the world today?"

"About nine billion, I think," Iris said.

"Well, that number doesn't make a dent in the number of people who are _dead_ in the world today. It's all history, where we come from. Victor Borge is part of the history of entertainment. He may be dead, but he's still funny."

Iris stood up, turned around, stomped flat-footed the few steps to the loveseat, turned around and plopped herself into the narrow space between Lassiter and Juliet. "All right, I'll give him a try. At least it's not black and white," she said, folding her hands into her armpits.

On the screen, Borge introduced fellow pianist "Sahan Arzruni," and together they began to play Liszt's second Hungarian rhapsody, fighting for position over the piano keyboard. Iris giggled when Borge pulled the piano bench out from under Arzruni, and continued to giggle as they raced each other from one end of the keyboard to the other.

"They're acting like idiots, but they're still making beautiful music," Iris said wonderingly.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Lassiter said. "Most people act like idiots with no redeeming quality whatsoever."

"Thinking about Shawn and Gus?" Juliet asked.

"I spoke no names. If that's what your brain crops up with, that's not my fault," he said.

Juliet realized that she was not ready to think about Shawn just now, and shoved those thoughts aside with some little difficulty. Soon enough she'd have to make a big decision with regards to Shawn. Let this be a pleasant, Shawn-free morning.

Victor Borge finished up his concert with a rendition of his phonetic punctuation, which Iris enjoyed, and after rewinding the tape, Lassiter asked Iris if she wanted to see something really funny - _despite_ the fact that it featured a dead person.

"Okay," she said, with a mild eye roll. Lassiter swapped out the tape for a recording of Red Skelton live at the Royal Albert Hall in London. Soon enough she was laughing her head off at the antics of "America's clown prince." The occasion the concert celebrated was the comedian's eightieth birthday, not that he seemed significantly hindered by his age as he cavorted through pantomimes and skits with the vigor of a much younger man.

"You miss out on a lot of good things when you give a pass to anything that goes back a ways," Lassiter said. "Most of Red Skelton's stuff was filmed in black and white, and there's a slew of other funny comics who never made it to Technicolor. Jack Benny, Abbott and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, The Three Stooges, the Marx Brothers…you should give 'em a try, Iris. You'll never know what you like or don't like if you don't give things a try."

"Oh…maybe," she said, grudgingly. "I might like the comedians, but I'll _never_ like black and white."

"I used to think that, Iris," Juliet said, "and then I started watching those old-time comics and suddenly it dawned on me, I didn't _care_ that they were in black and white. It just didn't matter anymore."

"Yeah, maybe," Iris said, still grudgingly.

"Some people just look better in black and white," Lassiter said. "I've always thought that _I _would."

"You were made for black and white, Carlton, but I think you'd look kind of eerie, because your eyes would show up as almost colorless," Juliet said.

"No they wouldn't," he said. "They'd just be…very…light…gray."

"That might be kinda creepy," Iris said. "But I kind of like the idea anyway."

The concert ended with Skelton singing his farewell song: _"The time has come to say good night. My, how time does fly. We've had a laugh, perhaps a tear, and now we say goodbye. I really hate to say good night, for times like these are few. I wish you love and happiness in everything you do. The time has come to say good night, and I hope I've made a friend. So I'll say may God bless, until we meet again."_

Lassiter looked down at the little girl seated next to him and realized she was crying.

"Iris, what's wrong?" he asked.

"We won't _meet_ again," she said. "He's _dead."_

He gave her a gentle hug. "Iris. He led a long and pretty healthy life. He had sorrows, and he had joys, just like all of us, and in the end, even though I think he probably loved living, I really doubt he was very sorry to die. When you get older, death isn't so scary anymore. The older you get, the less you fear it, until it even starts to look…kind of friendly. Peaceful. It's only natural to feel sad that someone is gone from this world, but you've got to learn to find some comfort in it, too. I don't know what you believe, and I can't honestly say that I completely know what _I _believe, but one thing I'm pretty sure of is that _whatever_ comes after life ends, there's no more pain and no more sorrow."

She sniffled. "Yeah."

He nudged her gently with his elbow. "And besides, it's not like he was coming over for dinner later, is it?"

Iris chuckled weakly.

"Yes, he's gone," Lassiter said, "but today he made a little girl laugh who wasn't even born yet when he passed away. I think he would agree with me that that makes him just a little bit immortal."

Iris seemed mollified as she snuggled deeper into a mutual hug with Lassiter, and Juliet watched and couldn't help but think that Lassiter would really make a wonderful father. He would be warm, unexpectedly wise, loving, and above all else, protective. What a shame he had no children of his own. There were plenty of children growing up in circumstances not so different from his own that would give anything for a father like him.

"Well, I think it's just about breakfast time, don't you?" Lassiter said. "Why don't you go get showered and dressed, Iris. What would you like for breakfast? I can make omelets."

"That sounds good. Cheese?" she asked.

"If that's what you want. O'Hara, how about you?"

"A cheese omelet sounds good to me," she said.

Iris got up and padded back into the bedroom, emerging moments later with her arms full of folded clothes, her pink sneakers on top of the pile. She entered the bathroom and closed the door behind herself, and in a few moments they heard the shower turn on. "You can get your shower next," Lassiter said to Juliet. "And unless Lincoln rolls out of bed before that concludes I'll go after you. He probably won't, though. Sundays he doesn't open the surf shop, so he tends to sleep in."

"Seems like he'd miss out on a lot of weekend revenue," Juliet said.

"I know. I think it's a little holdover from those good old Catholic school boy days. He may find out later on that he needs to be open on Sundays to make a real go of it, but apparently for now he's doing all right. Well enough to hire somebody to run the place for him while he teaches surfing, anyway, which seems pretty damned good to me."

His cell phone rang. The _Cops_ theme. "Chief," he said, answering it.

"_Good morning, Carlton. I hope I'm not disturbing you," _Vick said.

"Of course not. We've been up watching Red Skelton. Iris is just getting her shower right now, and then I'm going to make omelets."

"_You got Iris to watch Red Skelton?"_ She sounded amazed.

"She liked it. Cried a little at the end, when he sang his goodbye song, but I think she's okay."

"_How has she been?"_

"Like a little angel."

"_She's given you no trouble at all?"_

"None whatsoever. And I think O'Hara would say the same if I asked her," he said, giving the lady in question a raised eyebrow look. "We've been having fun. We watched Victor Borge and _Fraggle Rock_, and I think she enjoyed _Jaws. _My brother gave her a great white tooth."

"_Oh, she must like that. Where did you see _Fraggle Rock? _I haven't seen that show in decades."_

"I…uh…have the DVDs." Before she could even say a word about it he was defending himself. "My little sister loved it. She used to call me Schimmel-Finnie."

"_The never-seen neighbor. Doc's best friend."_

"Yeah."

"_That brings back some memories. I was a little too old to admit I watched it, but…I watched it," _Vick said. _"I honestly don't know why it didn't go on forever, like _Sesame Street_. It's a thousand times cuter and more fun for children."_

"Harder to come up with plots for _Fraggle Rock_, I'd think. Then, too, Jim Henson died around about the time the show ended, if I remember right. That probably took the wind out of some sails."

"_What did Iris think of Victor Borge?" _Vick asked.

"I think she liked him," he said. "She seemed impressed that he could act so stupid and still play the piano so well."

"_Was any of this…Borge, Skelton…black and white?"_

"No, but I think I got her to think about giving black and white a try, at least."

"_You're a miracle-worker." _She chuckled. _"Anyway, I didn't call you this morning just to check on how things are going."_

"I kind of thought so. What's up?"

"_Richard and I are facing something of an obstacle here in San Diego, insomuch as my aunt turns out to have become something of a hoarder. Her house is a pig sty. It is no place to recuperate. So he and I are going to spend the day cleaning up, which means we won't be back until late tonight. Is Iris okay with you for that long? I'm sure I can have her regular babysitter come pick her up."_

"Sure, she's fine here," Lassiter said. "I don't mind a bit, and…maybe…maybe we could take her bowling?"

"_I think Iris would _love_ that," _Vick said, sounding surprised. _"Don't be too competitive with her, Carlton, but yes, I think that would be a fine idea."_

"Oh, don't worry, I'll curb the impulse to dominate around her. Has she ever bowled before? Because if it's hard for her to get the ball to the pins, they've got those bumper things they'll lay down in the gutters for kids."

"_You'd actually consent to bowl a game with bumpers in the gutters?"_ Vick said.

"Why wouldn't I? My ball never goes into the gutter anyway," he said, wryly.

Thank God, the Chief laughed. _"There were bumpers in the gutters last time we took Iris bowling, but that's been awhile. She might want to try it without this time. She's a fairly competitive little girl herself."_

"Well, if we need bumpers after a bit we'll have 'em lay 'em down. I've got an old friend who works at the alley nearby and she won't be bothered a bit. I'll see if O'Hara wants to come along with us."

"Taking Iris bowling? Are you kidding? Of _course_ I'm coming along!" Juliet said.

"She says she's coming, Chief. She'll keep me in line, you know her."

"_Honestly, Carlton, I'm less worried about it today than I was yesterday. I'm happy things are going so well."_

"Iris is a good kid. I'm happy to spend a little time with her."

"_Glad to hear it. Well, I'll let you go, then."_

"So long, Chief. Good luck today, and I guess I'll see you tonight." She said her goodbyes and he clicked off the phone. He looked at Juliet. "Vick won't be back until late, so Iris is going to stay with me 'til she gets here."

"What about…Sunday dinner? You're not taking Iris along, are you?" Juliet asked.

"Oh God, no. I just won't go. Which means more than likely that Lincoln won't go, and when I call Lauren up and tell her I'm not going, _she _probably won't go, either. Well, mom will have a lot of leftovers to get her through the week."

* * *

**A/N:** I'm about a week away from lockdown. I had hoped this would last maybe a couple of weeks, but it's looking like more than that, since my sister called me up asking me if her older son, at college in New York, can come home for Christmas. Goody, one more person to shove into my tiny little house. He was a houseguest of mine last year when he came up for my dad's funeral, and he was a perfectly well-behaved guest, but he takes long showers and I'm just betting they all do. This is going to be much fun. He's also deaf, along with her fifteen year old son, and I lost most of my sign language when they moved to Arizona more than a decade ago, so I can't really communicate with either of them, except through writing, which neither of them like to do. Oh well, I expect I'll have the not-deaf eight year old to translate for me. Interestingly, she (the eight year old) has decided she doesn't want to trick-or-treat this year, and has asked if she can pass out candy with me instead while her mother takes her little brother around. This is fine by me, though my natural inclination is to turn off the damned porch light and pretend I'm not home on that night. I think me and the eight year old will get along all right, even though the last time I saw her she was just a baby. She likes Fraggle Rock. :)


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Psych_ or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **T+

**Spoilers: **Intense, and possible through series finale. Definitely contains spoilers for "The Rear View Mirror."

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Strike**

Lassiter, as it turned out, made excellent eggs but sloppy, sloppy omelets. He seemed embarrassed by it, as he slid the lumpy masses of eggs and cheese off onto their plates. "The way I make 'em, they don't stick together well. They're really more like scrambled eggs with cheese than true omelets, but they _taste _good."

They did, and they weren't all that was on the menu. Lassiter fried up bacon and hash browns as well, and made a stack of toast with butter and strawberry jam. "How did you get these eggs so…so…_fluffy?" _Juliet asked, through a mouthful.

"I make 'em with half and half. Mom always made scrambled eggs that way."

"Half and half? The stuff I put in my _coffee?"_

"Er…yes?"

"My God, it makes eggs taste utterly _sinful."_

"Er…good?"

Juliet looked around at the breakfast table. Lincoln had got up in time for an omelet, and her own couldn't have been composed of less than three eggs. Iris's didn't look any smaller. "We must have run you out of eggs, didn't we?" she said.

"Not quite. I keep lots of eggs on hand, because I run through 'em pretty quick just on my own. No big deal."

"Is it the half and half that makes the eggs fall apart on you when you try and flip 'em?" Juliet asked.

"Yeah. I use quite a bit of it," Lassiter said. "More than mother ever used, that's for sure."

"Which would be why your eggs are almost more white than yellow," Lincoln said. "Not that I'm complaining, they are delicious."

They finished up breakfast, and Lassiter and Lincoln did the dishes while Juliet went into the living room to turn on TV for Iris and then to go tidy up the bed she hadn't really used last night. While she was in Carlton's bedroom, austere in shades of blue and gray and without decoration other than one framed black and white photograph of a sunset on the ocean with not a ship or a sail in view, she made a discovery. Unexpected, like the many discoveries she'd made this unexpected weekend, but she just had to ask, because honestly, who would have thought?

She brought it with her into the kitchen. "Carlton," she said, holding it up, "why do you have a Beanie Baby?"

"Lulu gave it to me," he said, with a shrug. "She used to collect the damn things."

Juliet looked at it, then back at him. "Why did she give you _this_ one? It's a _chicken," _she said.

"It's a _rooster," _he corrected.

"It's a chicken. Gender doesn't signify," she said.

"It's my Chinese zodiac," Lassiter said, with a shake of his head. "Lulu's into that kind of thing."

She opened the little ear tag card, although it was attached to the rooster's wing, roosters not having external ears. "Rooster," she read. "Born in 1945, 1957, _1969 -" _she pointed at Lassiter - "198..._1? _Hey, _I'm_ a rooster, too!"

"That you are," he said.

Instinctively, Juliet bit back the words that formed on the tip of her tongue - "I wonder what Shawn's sign is," - because Lassiter wouldn't want to hear it and honestly, this morning, she didn't, either.

"'You are intelligent and devoted to work,'" she read, nodding along thoughtfully as she applied the proposed characteristics to both of them. "'Can be selfish and eccentric. Snakes and oxen are good for you. Rabbits are trouble!'"

"Damn those rabbits," Lincoln said. "They're almost as bad as squirrels."

"What's _your_ Chinese zodiac sign?" Juliet asked him.

"Oh, I'm a shit-weasel."

Lassiter socked him on the arm. "Lincoln. There's a little girl in the next room."

"Wasn't that what the aliens were called in that book by Stephen King? I can't remember the title," Juliet said.

"_Dreamcatcher," _Lassiter said. "Yeah."

"It is so weird that you know that."

"I told you, didn't I? Gramma made me read Stephen King novels when I was a kid."

"That novel didn't come out when you were a kid," Juliet said.

"Well, I…kind of kept up on my own. I haven't read _everything _he's published in recent years, but I've read…most things."

"He's got the books on shelves in the guest room. Mostly hardcover," Lincoln said.

"Yeah, well, when I don't have relatives bunking with me, that room is kind of my office."

"They provide a sharp contrast to the books on profiling techniques and military strategy and civil war biographies that likewise grace the shelves in there."

"There are _other things _on my bookshelves than just Stephen King and law enforcement and military history," Lassiter said.

"Mostly leftovers from the days when Gramma force fed you classic literature. For someone who doesn't like to read, you have startlingly full bookshelves."

"It's not really that I don't _like _to read," Lassiter said, "or rather, that I don't like _books. _Reading _itself_ is kind of painful, which is bad because I have to do a lot of it for work. But I like learning new things and I like losing myself in a good story. I'd go the audio book route but that just feels like cheating, to me. Gramma would undoubtedly call it laziness."

"At what point did you decide to lose yourself in the story of Harry Potter?" Lincoln asked, snickering. "Because you have _those _books on your shelves, too. All hardback, except the first one."

Lassiter's face turned scarlet, but his voice was surprisingly even when he spoke. "Is it so surprising I would enjoy a story about a boy in bad circumstances finding strength in himself and his friends and fighting to make a better world?" he said. "I just _tried_ the first one, to see what the big fuss was about, and…got involved. I tried _Twilight, _too, but couldn't get past the first couple of chapters. I'm not into angsty teenagers falling in love with supernatural creatures, and I found the author's writing style to be…rather purple, just in my own personal opinion. I may have been prejudiced."

"Carlton, admitting you've tried to read _Twilight_ might just be the bravest thing you've ever done, and you're the furthest thing possible from a coward," Juliet said. "Even if your opinion was colored by prejudice, you at least gave it a _try."_

"Have you ever read _Twilight, _Detective O'Hara?" Lincoln asked.

"No, I haven't," she admitted. "Love stories about vampires give me the creeps. It's like…necrophilia. So totally not sexy. But I did read the Harry Potter books. On Stephen King's suggestion, when he wrote about them in an article he did for some magazine or other. He likes them a lot, though he was a little critical of…which one? The fifth one, I think. Where Harry was at his angstiest."

"I remember that article. Rowling uses a lot of adverbs, which authors tend to avoid as much as possible, preferring to let the story and the dialogue inform the reader by implying emotion instead of stating it outright. King suggests cutting adverbs out of your writing as much as possible in his _On Writing," _Lassiter said.

"Why have you read _On Writing?" _Juliet asked. "Isn't that book pretty much meant just…for _writers?"_

"I was curious. The processes involved in the craft of writing are kind of…intriguing."

"Have you ever tried it yourself?" Lincoln asked.

"I write all the time. For work."

"Police reports, Carlton. That's not quite the same kind of craft," Juliet said.

"You could write novels about cops, solving crime," Lincoln said. "Maybe make a lot of money. People eat that stuff up."

"I don't have that kind of spare time," Lassiter said. "Not to mention, I kind of lack skill. Reading a book about writing doesn't imbue talent for it."

"How do you know you don't have talent if you don't try it?" Juliet said.

There was something shifty in Lassiter's manner when he spoke. "I'm pretty sure I can't play the clarinet, either, O'Hara. It's more than just a lack of talent, it's a lack of craft. It takes years of practice to get proficient at the art of writing, and I just don't have that kind of time - _or_ the inclination."

_Oh Carlton, something tells me you're not telling me the whole truth, _Juliet thought. _But what is there to lie about?_

She returned the colorful Ty rooster to where it sat on the dresser in the bedroom with a final tweak to its gold lamé beak. Then she went back into the living room and sat beside Iris on the couch to watch_ Littlest Pet Shop _on Discovery Family. The brothers finished up the dishes in the kitchen and came in to watch a little TV, Lassiter sitting on the floor leaned up against the arm of the loveseat and Lincoln taking the nearby armchair his brother had left vacant.

"There's room on the couch for you, Carlton, you know that," Juliet said.

"I'm fine," he said.

"_Detective Lassiter, _you're being silly," Iris said, in that moment looking and sounding so much like Karen Vick it was almost frightening.

"Oh-kay," Lassiter said, and climbed up off the floor and sat down on the loveseat next to Iris, who happily ceded space to him. Today her top featured Belle from Disney's _Beauty and the Beast_, and the cuffs of her jeans were rolled up to expose pink leopard print.

"Iris, while you were getting ready this morning your mom called, and it looks like you'll be staying with Detective O'Hara and I for a little bit longer today than we anticipated," Lassiter said, after a moment. "Your mom and dad will be back sometime tonight. That okay?"

"Sure," she said.

"We thought, maybe…you'd like to go bowling with us this afternoon," he said.

Iris sat forward. "Are you kidding? That would be great!"

"Good. I'm glad you like the idea. The bowling alley opens up in," he checked his watch, "about two hours, so you can watch some cartoons and then we'll head out, okay?"

"Can I come, too?" Lincoln asked. "I haven't been bowling in…forever."

"Iris, you mind?" Lassiter asked.

"Of course not. It's more fun with more people."

_Littlest Pet Shop _changed to _Pound Puppies_, and after that came _My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic,_ which happened to be Iris's favorite TV show, so they sat through the two episodes even though Iris admitted they were reruns. There was no hurry to get to the bowling alley, Lassiter said. The place was rarely crowded before evening, when leagues met there. Juliet wondered about this "old friend" he'd mentioned that worked there. It was hard to imagine him with "old friends," even though she knew he was the kind of person to hang onto what few friendships he ever made for life. Maybe this person was one of his regular informants. Juliet knew he had a handful, scattered across the city, people he depended on for an eye-level view of the streets and what took place on them, and she didn't know many of them since he was generally extremely careful to maintain their anonymity.

Iris's cartoons ended and they all got up together and left the condo for the Ford Fusion parked in the attached parking ramp. Juliet would have liked another ride in the Stingray, but it didn't have a backseat, so there was no seating four inside it, and it certainly didn't have the safety features of the Fusion. Another day.

Juliet sat in the back with Iris, who buckled her seatbelt conscientiously, and Carlton pulled the car out of his reserved spot and carefully maneuvered it down the ramp and out into the glorious warm Santa Barbara day. It would have been a good day to go to the beach, late in the season though it was getting to be, if Lassiter were the kind of man who would ever think to suggest a trip to the beach. Bowling was good, though. Bowling was _fine._

It wasn't a long trip to the bowling alley Lassiter had in mind, and he pulled into a parking space near the front doors, because the parking lot was almost deserted. They went inside, where a particularly dark-skinned Hispanic woman with graying hair stood behind the rental counter. She looked up, and her slightly wrinkled face lit up in a huge smile.

"Mister Carlton!" she said, in a heavily accented voice. She then surprised Juliet immensely by scampering out from behind the counter and throwing her arms around Lassiter's middle for a huge hug. She barely came up to his chest.

"Hi, Nati," Lassiter said, not _exactly_ hugging her back, but not pushing her away, either. "How's Brianna?"

"So good. Twelve year!" the woman said.

"Good Lord, already? Wasn't she just a baby?"

The woman caught sight of Iris. "Mister Carlton, who this? You have baby?" Her words were reproachful.

"No, Nati, she's not mine. I'm just looking after her for the day. She's my boss's daughter. Her name's Iris. And this is Juliet, my partner on the force, and I think you've met my brother Lincoln, though it's been a long time. Guys, this is Natividad. She's from Peru. She and I worked together a long time ago."

"At that secondhand store, where you got your first job, right?" Lincoln said. "I remember. But she used to call you 'Mister CJ.'"

"She made the switch along with _everyone else," _Lassiter said, with a dark look at his brother. "In any event, Nati understands English perfectly, but she never did get the hang of speaking it real well. She usually gets her point across, but she can be hard to understand."

Juliet stepped up and held out her hand. She reintroduced herself and said hello in Spanish. Natividad, for her part, looked somewhat insulted.

"I speak English," she said.

"I told you, O'Hara, she _understands_ English perfectly well. She just doesn't speak it perfectly well."

"Just thought I'd…let her know she…could speak Spanish and I'd understand," Juliet said, blushing.

Lassiter turned back to the woman. "We thought we'd do a little bowling today, Nati," he said. "Can you hook us up?"

The woman gabbled happily in her heavy accent, English but almost incomprehensible, and returned behind the counter to set them up with a lane and shoes. Lassiter paid and everyone told their shoe size. Lincoln and Lassiter thought nothing whatsoever of publicly admitting they wore size twelve, but Juliet seemed unaccountably embarrassed to confess she wore a size eight.

"What's wrong with you?" Lassiter asked. He held his freshly-sprayed rental shoes in one hand.

"I'm just a little embarrassed by my feet," Juliet said, blushing.

"Why?"

"Because they're…kinda big."

"Size eight? Are you kidding? Lulu's about your height and she wears a _ten._ And it doesn't bother her a bit."

"Well, the other women in my family all have very dainty little feet," Juliet said.

"You're hardly a sasquatch, O'Hara," Lassiter said, as he sat down on a nearby chair to slip off his tan work boots and into his rental shoes. He then picked out a ball from the racks by the wall and helped Iris select an eight-pound ball she could handle. It was pink, so she liked it just fine.

Juliet pulled on her shoes and selected a ball, then followed Lassiter and Iris down to the lane that Natividad had opened up for them. There were only a two other lanes being bowled at the moment, one by a man on his own and another by a small family.

Iris bowled first, and knocked down all but three of the pins. She was able to pick up the spare when her ball came shooting out of the ball return. She had decent form, for an eight year old, and probably wouldn't need bumpers after all. They bowled a few frames, and then Lincoln treated everyone to sodas and a couple of orders of mozzarella cheese sticks, and they bowled some more, and thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon.

Lassiter's phone rang, the _Cops _theme. "Chief," he said, answering it.

"_Hello, Carlton, just checking in to see how things are going," _Vick said.

"Everything's great. We're bowling right now, and Iris is kicking tail. How's the cleanup going?"

"_We're making progress, though at times it doesn't feel like it. We should be done fairly soon, and we're thinking we'll be back in Santa Barbara by eight or thereabouts."_

They talked briefly, and then said goodbye. Almost as soon as he hung up, however, the phone rang again, to the tune of "Lawyers, Guns, and Money."

"Spencer," he said, half greeting, half warning.

"_Sassy Lassifrassy," _Shawn said. _"I have psychically divined that _you_ are babysitting."_

"Oh, you've _divined _that, have you? What's it to you?"

"_Let me talk to Jules," _he said.

"Call her on her own phone," Lassiter said. "Or don't you know the number?"

"_Come on, Lassy, I know she's there with you. At a _bowling alley_, no less. I psychically divined that she wasn't at Chief Vick's house, and I likewise determined that she wasn't at your place, either, which is pretty much the only other place she'd be, so of course, she's out with you. Bowling."_

"By 'psychically divined' you mean you went to Chief Vick's place and found she wasn't there, then probably swung by my place and likewise found she wasn't there. But you're right. We are bowling. We're bowling with _Iris_, Spencer. And if you want to talk to O'Hara, call her on _her phone."_

"_She didn't spend the night with you, did she?"_ Shawn asked.

"She spent the night playing _Dragon Age."_

"_But you were _there," Shawn said, plaintively. _"She told _me_ 'no boys allowed.'"_

"When O'Hara and Iris had their little slumber party there were no boys in the room. And why would you think she would invite _you_ over when she was babysitting without first getting Chief Vick's permission, which I am pretty sure she would never give?"

"_But she let _you _babysit little Eleanor?"_

"_Iris. _And I was the one she initially called about it. O'Hara just told the Chief she'd help me."

"_Does she _want _her child traumatized?"_

"If she wanted that, Spencer, she would have called _you_ to babysit. Now goodbye, it's been my turn to bowl for awhile now and the natives are getting restless."

"_Wait, which alley are you at?" _Spencer asked.

"None of your business, because you're not dropping by to bother us. Goodbye."

He hung up the phone, slipped it into his back pocket, and grabbed his ball. While he was bowling, Juliet grew curious, so she took out her own phone and hit the speed dial.

"_There's a certain girl I been in love with a long, long time. What's her name? I can't tell ya. There's a certain chick I been sweet on since I met her. What's her name? I can't tell ya." _The ringtone was Warren Zevon's "A Certain Girl," and the phone was Lassiter's. He grabbed his phone out of his pocket and hit the "decline" button as quickly as he could. Juliet laughed lightly, pleased even though she knew she really shouldn't be.

"It's just a ringtone," Lassiter muttered, defensively.

"What ringtone do you have set for your mother?" Juliet asked.

"'Bat Out of Hell,'" he said, and she laughed again.


End file.
